


Through a glass, darkly

by theoneandonlyzoom



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gaslighting, Hallucinations, Head Injury, Murder, Mystery, Other, Sedation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22985443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneandonlyzoom/pseuds/theoneandonlyzoom
Summary: A swift hit to the head knocks Malcolm flat out in the parking lot of a recent crime scene, but a splitting headache is the least of his worries when he wakes up in a world where‘the Surgeon’is still a serial killer at large with a known body-count far exceeding a hundred.It goes without saying that Malcolm needs to find a way out of this topsy-turvy hell, and he needs to find itnow…
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Edrisa Tanaka, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 44
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I started working on this around the time that Pied-A-Terre (episode 9) aired, although Paul Lazar won't be making an appearance and, obviously, there will be no mention of Endicott either. This story is just going to revolve around the ever dysfunctional Whitly family and Malcolm's inner demons. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As an aside, this story is a gift for Ezra. Keep being amazing, little dude.
> 
>  **18 February 2021** : Believe me, I did not intend to take a 1+ year hiatus. I will hopefully have the next chapter out in the coming weeks. I'm so sorry about the delay.

~***~

_“For now, we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face;_

_now, I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known."_

1 Corinthians 13:12

~***~

He goes out like a light, clean and easy, the searing pain behind his eyes barely there before it’s gone again, his consciousness slipping away with it.

In the nebulous darkness that ensues, he hears snippets of sirens and raised voices. Someone sounds vaguely frustrated; someone else is clearly amused. There’s a sharp bark of laughter, disbelieving and dismissive, before he sees his father’s face staring down at him through the void, looking vaguely concerned. For all the distance between them, the man feels uncomfortably close, and so Malcolm lashes out, numb hands and feet connecting with nothing of substance before his mind submerges into the great, bleak beyond. 

~***~

Malcolm returns to the waking world in a snap.

Nauseated, he lies there until the room settles from its dizzying spin. Then he blinks the sleep from his eyes and glances around himself at the whitewashed walls of his hospital suite, his view half-obscured by the flimsy green curtain concealing his bed from the door. To his right, sunlight streams in through a window, bringing with it the midafternoon heat, enough to comfortably counteract the chill of the facility’s AC. It also gives Ainsley an almost ethereal glow where she’s settled down beside his bed, arms crossed, chin resting against her chest as she dozes. She looks beyond exhausted, hair uncharacteristically pulled back in a loose ponytail, wearing black trackpants and the grey hoodie that she got from New York Presbyterian/Columbia University when she did a story on their medical center two years ago. She almost never dresses down, always ready for a live report, so seeing her this way sinks Malcolm’s heart into his stomach; whatever medical emergency his decisions precipitated, it was serious enough that she chose to drop everything for him.

Lifting a hand to his face, Malcolm rubs gingerly at his right temple. He can feel his heart pulsing in his head, which itself feels as though it suddenly weighs a ton. Whatever hit him, it did quite the number.

Ainsley stirs when she hears him move, raising her head to squint blearily at him. “You’re awake,” she says, sounding cheery despite her obvious fatigue. She clears her throat and straightens in her chair, gently rotating her head to sort out the kinks in her neck. “Thank god. I just convinced mom to grab a coffee. She was starting to wear away at the linoleum with her pacing.”

Malcolm smiles, a small and automatic quirk at the corner of his lips. As overbearing as his mother can be, he could always count on her to be there for him when he needed her most. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he replies, voice hoarse from his rest.

Ainsley bats a hand at him, dismissing his concerns. “Well, you’re back now. How do you feel?”

Lowering his hand, Malcolm tries to turn his head from one side to the other. The pain is still there, albeit muted. He wonders what kind of painkillers they have him on. “I’ve been better. Not that I’m complaining. What exactly happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell us.” Reaching into the pocket of her hoodie, Ainsley pulls out her phone and scowls at the screen, scanning it for notes. “According to our one and only witness, some guy came at you with a baseball bat last night as you were leaving your car. The cops think it was an attempted mugging, because he grabbed your wallet but dropped it when he split. Mom has it in her purse right now, along with your phone and house keys, just in case you’re wondering.”

Closing his eyes, Malcolm tries to conjure up his memories of the scene. He remembers standing in a parking lot. He also remembers that it was dark outside. That’s about it.

“Where was I?” he asks, hoping that another clue might prompt something more substantial.

“Somewhere along Fifth Avenue. I think they said you were outside Orvis.”

Orvis is a hunting and fishing store; Malcolm doesn’t hunt _or_ fish, so he must have been there for a job. In fact, didn’t Gil call him yesterday for an on-scene consultation…? 

“Huh,” he says, opening his eyes again. In the distance, he can hear the telltale staccato of what he imagines to be his mother’s high heels beating down the hallway, heavy and purposeful, ready for a fight.

Predictably, Jessica Whitly sweeps into the room shortly, a disposable cup of coffee clutched in her hand, her face scrunched up in disgust. “Ainsley,” she says, “this is _horrifying_. I don’t know how you drink this on a daily basis and— _oh_!” Taking notice of Malcolm’s conscious state, she comes to an abrupt halt. Her whole demeaner does a 180 as she smiles brightly at him, her coffee woes suddenly forgotten. “Darling, you’re awake!”

“Hello, mother,” he returns, dutiful but still fond.

“Thank _god_ ,” she drawls, turning to the small sink adjacent to his bed. She pops the lid off her coffee cup and dumps its contents down the drain. “No more of this slop—Ainsley, be a dear and call for the nurse. The sooner they finish their assessment, the sooner we can leave.”

“Really?” Ainsley asks, skeptical. “He took a bat to the head, mom. He should stay until—”

“His CT scans were promising. No fractures. No other grievous damage, really.” Jessica offers both of her children a curt smile, the kind that invites nothing less than their absolute agreement. “No reason to stay—unless, of course, you think you need more time, Malcolm?”

For once, Malcolm is 100% behind her decision. “No. I’m with you on this one.”

“Wonderful.”

Ainsley side-eyes him in disappointment before rising from her seat and disappearing beyond the bed curtain to hail a passing nurse.

“Having said that,” Jessica continues, “the doctor’s told me that you _do_ need to remain under observation for the next 48 hours, so I called home and had the spare bedroom prepped for you.”

“Ha,” Malcolm exhales, hoping she’s joking. “No— _thank you_ , but no. I can manage on my own.”

Jessica blinks at him, unamused, then makes a start for the door. “Ainsley, on second thought—”

“Stop.” Sitting up is a challenge, especially with the sudden wave of nausea that passes over him. He pauses a moment to let his stomach settle and then says, “Stop, _please_ …I just need a little rest—”

“And someone to monitor you, in case you take a sudden turn for the worse.” Leaning forward over the foot of his bed, hands braced against the railing, Jessica gives him a knowing smile. “And we _both_ know how good you are at ‘resting,’ Malcolm. You’re the worst patient in the world.”

Which is a fair assessment, one he can’t exactly argue against. Therefore, he’ll have to settle with an alternative, which is to bargain down his sentence a little: “ _One_ night. Twenty-four hours is all you really need, anyway. Deal?”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, unimpressed with this lowball pitch. Even so, she glances at her wristwatch and, after a moment of deliberation, capitulates. “From now until 5pm tomorrow evening, although it would nice if you could stick around for my charity banquet.”

“No promises, but I’ll try.”

That earns him more of a genuine smile. “Any chance you’ll have a plus-one?”

“Highly unlikely, I’m afraid.”

She waves a hand at him in disappointment. “Well, the offer still stands. Let me know if you change your mind.”

As she leans back to glance into the corridor, Malcolm briefly ponders what Ainsley told him when he woke. “By the way,” he says, “do you happen to have any other information about what happened last night? Ainsley said I was attacked outside an Orvis.”

“That sounds about right. I have your wallet, by the way. Your cash and credit cards are still here.”

“Was I on Fifth Avenue for a case?”

She glances back at him, frowning. “A case? No. For fishing wire, I should think. You’ve scheduled time off for your annual vacation in a few days, so I suppose you were picking up a few last minute items.”

“What do you mean?” he asks. He hasn’t had a vacation in the last five years. In fact, aside from a few civic holidays, he’s always clocked in the usual 40+ hours of work every week.

His curious line of inquiry is interrupted when a man in scrubs pulls the bed curtain aside, a stethoscope looped around the back of his neck and a clipboard in his hand, Ainsley in tow. “Sooo…” He scans his paperwork and then says, “Malcolm? Ready to go, are we?”

Malcolm smiles, despite his unease. “Yes, please…”

~***~

Life takes another peculiar turn once he’s given the stamp of approval to leave.

Ainsley and his mother give him a moment alone to change in privacy, which is a slow process, his head still a little heavy, now a dull, throbbing pain that persists behind his eyes. When he ducks into the en suite and catches sight of himself in the mirror, his sense of surreality changes from a creeping sensation along the back of his spine to a veritable _wall_ , one which he hits at a truly stunning speed. His reflection presents him a few minor items of concern, such as his cleanshaven face and the fact that his hair is much shorter than he remembers, but it’s most jarring quality is the spatter of bruises around his throat. They’re faint, a sickly yellow almost too pale to notice under the shadow of his jaw, but he can see the unmistakeable pattern of a thumb on one side and the line of fingers on the other; someone grabbed him with their right hand and gave him a good hard squeeze at least a few days ago.

What happened to him?

He spends too long standing there, staring at his reflection. A short rapt on the door startles him from his reverie, followed by his mother’s concerned voice: _“Is everything alright in there?”_

For a moment, he almost asks her about the bruises, but then he realizes that she’s already seen them—Ainsley’s already seen them, too, when he was lying in bed, comatose, yet neither thought to mention them. Therefore, pressing them for information won’t be useful, so he runs the tap for a few seconds, splashing cool water into his face, and says, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He tries to keep his face neutral when he leaves the en suite, taking his coat and dress shoes from Ainsley, slipping them on as he tries to figure out why there are so many gaps in his memories. How did he lose his recollection of more than just the events from last night? Has he really only been out for a day?

Maybe he shouldn’t leave the hospital.

“Here are your things,” his mother offers, pulling his phone, keys, and wallet from her purse.

Numbly, Malcolm takes the proffered items and slips them into his coat pockets.

“…Are you sure you’re alright?” Ainsley asks.

Stupidly, he nods.

Disbelieving as she might look, Ainsley leans over to give him a quick peck on the cheek before ducking back into the hallway. “I have to get back to work, but I’ll swing by later tonight for dinner,” she offers over her shoulder.

“Goodbye, dear,” their mother replies, looping her arm through Malcolm’s. “Let’s get you home, alright?”

Again, he simply nods.

He feels like he’s in the twilight zone all along his journey to the car and then onward to his childhood home. His mother side-eyes him warily from where she sits next to him on the backseat of her car but fortunately doesn’t suggest that they turn back now. Instead, she tries to put a positive spin on the situation by saying, “See, you’re better off with family right now than all alone in your loft.”

“I guess so.” And, really, he agrees with her.

That’s the extent of their conversation until they arrive at his mother’s place, at which point Malcolm walks through the door, sees a new face standing there to greet them, and, smiling in confusion, says, “Where’s Katya?”

For the past five years, Katya had been his mother’s maid, a young, blond woman with a rather brilliant sense of humor. The woman standing before him now is taller, dark haired, and at least ten years older, the corners of her eyes wrinkling gently when she returns his smile of confusion. “Sir?” she asks, uncertain of how to proceed.

His mother gives him a weird look. “Katya hasn’t been here for a while, Malcolm. This is Valentia.”

Valentia gives him a polite nod.

“My apologies,” he says, beginning to feel a little light-headed. He wants to ask how long ago she left, but he’s somewhat afraid to address the disaster of a state his mind is in right now. “I bumped my head. I think I just need to go lie down for a while.”

A look of sympathy crosses Valentia’s face. “Are you hungry? Would you like me to bring you something up to eat?”

“Just a glass of water, please.” He doesn’t think he could stomach food at the moment.

His mother opens her mouth in concern—but a soft ring down the corridor on the right draws her attention to her private study. Then she sighs, as if defeated, and waves her hand dismissively at him. “You suffered more than just a bump on the head, but, yes, I think you should lie down. I’ll check up on you after I deal with this.”

“Take your time.”

With a huff of irritation, she disappears down the hall. Malcolm takes that as his cue to slip upstairs while he still can.

As often as he visits his mother, he rarely retreats to the second floor. He’s had little reason to, although he has a standing invitation from his mother to use his old room, now a guest bedroom, whenever he desires. Though he grew up here, several years free from the shadow of his father, he never felt comfortable sleeping under this roof knowing what occurred two stories below him. It didn’t take the police long to discover that his father stored the bodies of every one of his 23 victims here before delivering them elsewhere for disposal. Martin’s dreadful business always made this place feel like less of a home and more like a holding cell.

Malcolm takes each step slowly, dragging his hand up the old, polished banister, thinking back on how he used to sit on the top step and watch the door like a hawk on the nights that his father was out late for work, usually called away for an emergency surgery. Martin always stepped across the threshold as a hero in Malcolm’s eyes, just a little grander than the time before. Malcolm therefore understands, to an extent, why his mother was so concerned with his continued fascination with his father, even as it turned from hero-worship to the same kind of frightened curiosity a child reserves for the strange and terrible beasts one finds in the wild.

The curtains are already drawn when he enters his room. It’s cool and dark in here, the bed an inviting sight, even with all the decorative pillows heaped upon it. Malcolm tosses his jacket onto the desk in the corner and toes off his shoes, leaving the rest of his dress attire on as he collapses onto the bed, head still throbbing as he then gingerly rolls over onto his back. He feels like he could sleep for ages just like this.

For once, sleep does, indeed, come to him easy. There’s the telltale pull behind his eyes, accompanied by a weightlessness that seizes his entire body. He drifts momentarily, taking slow, even breaths, welcoming that delightful oblivion.

Then he hears a voice, speaking to him as if from far away.

Faintly, another joins it. Then another.

His heart begins to race, at war with the pleasant pull of slumber.

Suddenly, he’s too afraid to allow himself to sleep.

Somehow, he manages to lift a hand to his face and rub at his eyes. Immediately, his body feels leaden, almost too heavy to move. Rolling onto his side takes tremendous effort, but it quiets the hissing noise in his ears, snuffing out the cacophony of voices. Gradually, he returns to his senses.

Heart still racing, he struggles to sit up. The room spins, but he gives himself time to adjust before he pushes himself up onto his feet. Then he closes his bedroom door and ambles over to his dresser, rummaging around for a pair of his old trackpants and a t-shirt, a navy blue one with _Daydreamer_ scrawled in white across the chest, trying to make himself a little more comfortable. However, even after shrugging out of his dress shirt and trousers, the bed no longer looks inviting. In fact, he dreads the thought of falling asleep, as if allowing himself to drift away will only pull him further from reality.

He’s interrupted from his internal crisis by the soft knock on the door. Valentia’s soft voice drifts through to him as she says, _“I have your water, sir.”_

He feels instantly relieved by her company. He opens the door eagerly, taking the proffered glass of water with a grateful nod. “Thank you, Valentia. And please, call me Malcolm.”

She smiles warmly at him. “Will that be all then, Malcolm?”

“Actually…” he glances once more at the bed, realizes he’s not ready to tackle that particular problem just yet, and then says, “what are you up to right now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m setting up sample decorations for tomorrow’s banquet. Your mother is still trying to decide on what centre piece she would like for the table.”

His mother so rarely hosts functions anymore. Malcolm is glad to hear that she’s taken a sudden interest in it again. Maybe this work with the anti-trafficking group will help boost her confidence in the social arena for the long run.

“Would it be alright if I watch you?” he asks, almost too embarrassed to ask. “I promise not to touch anything.”

Fortunately, Valentia doesn’t look at all surprised by the request. In fact, she seems delighted. “I would love the company. You can tell me if anything looks too outlandish.”

Malcolm’s frantic heartbeat finally begins to ease off the pedal. He smiles and nods, quietly following her downstairs to the main lounge.

Valentia is already well into her work by the look of things. She has a few props set up on the coffee table and a handful of other arrangements carefully strewn across the floor, experimenting with flowers and leaves, some gold and some white, carefully intertwined with strings of pearls around his mother’s favorite candlesticks.

“Any thoughts?” she asks as he settles down in the nearest armchair.

He scans the displays and nods, “I like all the pinks and golds. I’m not sure how valuable my input is, but there you have it.”

With a nod, she leans over one of the large cardboard boxes half hidden behind the adjacent couch, pulling out more plastic flowers and leaves—more pinks and golds, and then a few roses, the red a delightful pop of colour against the softer hues. Malcolm knows his mother will order the real deal for tomorrow, but he thinks the mock display looks just as nice as anything a real florist could pull together. Or maybe that’s just him, simple as he is in his tastes.

After a while, Valentia begins rummaging through the boxes in obvious frustration. Eventually, she straightens up again, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m missing at least two boxes,” she sighs.

Malcolm’s heart unexpectedly seizes when she turns to leave. He jumps to his feet on impulse, head momentarily spinning. “I can help you lift a few things, if you would like the help.” 

“In your condition?” she asks, perplexed, glancing back at him to give him a quick once over. “…I mean, you can help me look, but please don’t strain yourself.”

“I won’t,” he promises, feeling foolish again, still clutching his glass of water tightly, almost protectively, in his hand.

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, she leads the way to the basement.

Malcolm pauses briefly at the top of the stairway before following her down. His mother always hated the basement. In fact, even though she rarely retrieved anything from storage herself, he thought she made sure to cram as many things into the attic as she possibly could after his father was arrested, despite the large maze of rooms available below. This was Martin’s domain, after all, and the less time she spent thinking about this awful place, the better.

Therefore, it’s a curious thing to see that the floor is well-swept and all the lights are in working condition as they retreat downstairs. Valentia immediately makes a beeline down the main corridor toward one of the older storage rooms at the far back of the property, leaving Malcolm where he stands eyeing his father’s old study, its double doors left ajar, the office dark and quiet.

He approaches the room in something of a trance, bewildered by the uncovered furniture, recently polished and dusted. Martin’s desk is still covered in pens and papers and small, anatomical models. Against the far wall stands a row of bookcases housing the many medical journals that _should_ be in Martin’s private cell at the asylum. Beside them are situated two armchairs, their fabric a little more worn-out than Malcolm remembers, a small side-table and a space heater set between them, the same cozy space his father used to occupy in the early evenings as he reviewed manuscripts for medical journals and the like.

Malcolm’s feet carry him to one of the bookcases. He switches his glass of water to his left hand and reaches out with the other to trace the spines of the journals resting there. He freezes on one in particular, the journal that he knows contains his father’s notes on the quartet.

This can’t be real…

“Malcolm?”

He’s momentarily seized by his fear. He barely flinches when he hears the hard crack of his glass as it connects with the cement floor by his feet, water spilling over onto his socks. He looks down first, somehow feeling ashamed about the accident, unaware that he had even dropped the glass until it shattered. Then, heart racing, his other hand braced against one of the shelves for support, Malcolm musters up the courage to half-turn toward the door and face the manifestation of his inner demons.

Silhouetted in the threshold to his study stands Martin Whitly, taller than Malcolm by a few inches, squinting into the darkness with obvious concern as he reaches for the switch on the wall by the door. Suddenly, the room is flooded with light, the old bulb above his desk casting an oily glow over the empty space between them. In three easy steps, Martin could close that distance and be upon him.

As accustomed as Malcolm is to his panic attacks, they continue to strike him with the same ferocity. His chest feels tight, his hands and feet numb. He’s not getting enough air. He needs to calm down, but _knowing that_ doesn’t help him, not when his body has been long conditioned to bow before the monster that dwelled thirty feet beneath his bed for the better part of a decade. Here, now, stands the man who reigned terror upon New York City, free again at last; Malcolm can’t help but feel small and insignificant in his untethered company.

His hold on the shelf is weak, his hand slipping when his knees buckle, sending him stumbling toward the armchairs in the corner. Speckles of light dance across his vision as he fights for air. He’s almost certain he’s about to collide with the floor in the next second, but then an arm wraps around his back, a hand planting itself against his ribs as his father suddenly invades his personal space, guiding him to his destination. Malcolm stiffens in his hold, but his body moves as instructed, carrying him to the nearest chair, where he finally collapses.

“Just relax,” Martin says, crouching in front of him, taking Malcolm’s left hand into his own to give it a comforting squeeze.

“ _You’re here_ ,” Malcolm gasps in disbelief, still struggling to breathe.

“Yes, dad’s here,” Martin replies, edging himself back an inch. “Now, plant your feet and lean forward, elbows on your knees. Then relax your neck and shoulders, breathing into your stomach, not your chest. That should help.”

The _last_ thing Malcolm wants to do is take medical advice from his father, except these instructions are familiar to him, seeing as he’s had to wind himself down from a panic attack on more than one occasion. Even so, it’s an uphill battle. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground between his feet, his mind stubbornly focused not only on controlling the air flowing into his lungs but also on the unwelcome hand rubbing his forearm in comfort, too afraid to discover what would happen if he recoiled.

Eventually, he wins the fight against himself, lungs expanding and deflating at a regular pace. He still feels lightheaded, and his eyes are watering badly enough that he has to rub the moisture away to see, but he’s in control of his body once again. Now, he has the opportunity to focus on the _real_ fight, the one that involves ducking around and outrunning a man taller, stronger, and more talented in wrangling human beings than he is.

His plans of escape come to a screeching halt, though, when he lifts his head and sees his mother standing in the doorway. She looks bewildered by the mess of glass by the bookcase.

“My god,” she murmurs, shifting her attention to Malcolm. “What happened in here? Are you alright?” She takes a tentative step into the room, brow furrowed in confusion. “Are you crying?”

Malcolm wipes furiously his eyes again. “No,” he lies, more on reflex than anything else. He can feel a stray tear slipping traitorously down the side of his face. “I’m fine.”

Martin _tsks_ at him, grinning. “It’s just a minor panic attack, Jessica. They’re surprisingly common with head injuries.”

His mother presses a hand against her chest in concern, closing in on them now, reaching out with her other hand to stroke Malcolm’s hair back from his face. “Should we take him to the hospital?”

“No,” Martin replies, finally relinquishing his hold on Malcolm’s arm as he rises to his full height. “There’s really nothing they can do for him there that we can’t do for him here. What he _needs_ is rest.” He gives Malcolm a knowing look, still smiling, so goddamn _smug_. “But you already know that, my boy, don’t you?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice sounding small and weak in his own ears. He feels like such a child again, sitting here in this chair as his parents loom over him, fretting over his health. In fact, he’s beginning to feel a little claustrophobic… “I think I just need to get out of here and—”

“Don’t move,” Martin says, soft but commanding. “Just sit and relax for a moment, before you overexert yourself again. Doctor’s orders.”

There’s a sound at the doorway, a gentle knock that draws their attention to Valentia, who has arrived with a dustpan in hand. She nods apologetically as she ducks into the room and sets to work cleaning up the shattered glass.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm murmurs to her.

“It’s no worry,” she replies.

“Thank you, Valentia,” his mother sighs. “Could you please get him another glass of water when you get the chance?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And before I forget, could you also—” She stops short suddenly, listening.

They all freeze then, straining to hear what she hears, which sounds like the incredibly faint trill of the handheld phone in her office upstairs. Malcolm had almost forgotten how well insulated the basement was.

His mother rolls her eyes. “This again, _my god_ —Martin, I assume you have this covered?”

“Of course.”

With a small smile, she leans over to peck him on the lips. It’s a quick exchange, over almost as soon as it’s begun, but witnessing it is still a shock to the system. Malcolm absolutely _had_ forgotten how much love and affection once passed between them, how ardently they appeared to admire one another. It pains him more than he anticipates to think about the twenty years his mother—the mother he _remembers_ —spent without this kind of tenderness, this intimacy, how all her passion and respect quickly spoiled into rage in the wake of Martin’s arrest.

It takes his mother a moment to pry her eyes off of Martin as she turns away—but she makes sure to spare Malcolm a glance before she goes, suddenly dead serious, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t. _Move_.”

This earns a chuckle from Martin.

Still decently frightened, Malcolm doesn’t think he could budge a muscle right now even if he tried.

Martin’s eyes linger on his wife’s retreating form as he idly steps over to the armchair adjacent to Malcolm’s and takes a seat. Then he watches silently as Valentia finishes up her work, dumping the glass from the pan into the metal wastebasket beside Martin’s desk before she scurries off again. Malcolm continues to take deep, even breaths as he listens to her feet hammering up the stairs, leaving just the two of them in the bowels of Malcolm’s childhood home.

He _must_ be having a nightmare…

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there earlier today,” Martin says, crossing one leg over the other, sinking comfortably into his seat. “I was called in for surgery about an hour before you woke up. Between you and me, really, how _are_ you feeling? You look like you saw the devil.”

 _‘Because I feel like I’m in hell,’_ he thinks, glancing around the room, eyes falling on the framed copy of the Hippocratic Oath hanging on the wall beside Martin’s medical degree. Oh, what a pack of lies _that_ turned out to be…At least, Malcolm _assumes_ Martin’s oath was all just a lie, but then how is he still here? Why does it feel as though he never left, as if his twenty-year stint in the asylum was all just a figment of Malcolm’s imagination?

Malcolm folds his hands together over his lap, staring down at his entwined fingers as he says, “I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s the concussion. That’s all. Like you said.”

In the corner of his eye, he can see Martin slowly nodding. “Yes, of course…I guess it’s a good thing this incident lined up so well with your time off. Really, you’ve been working so hard lately, you deserve a little rest.”

Work— _yes_ , he needs to call Gil or Dani or _anyone_ from the NYPD and figure out what’s going on. Maybe seeing them again will provide him with a genuine sanity check, pull him from this otherworldly hellscape he’s somehow allowed himself to fall into.

“I should call work,” Malcolm says, thinking of his cellphone all the way upstairs in his coat pocket, the kind of lifeline he _really_ should learn to keep on hand at all times.

“No worries,” Martin says, “I chatted with Ben and the others after the surgery. They’re sorry about what happened.”

“Ben?” Malcolm asks—but already he can envision a man, sixty or so years old, dark-haired but balding, with warm, brown eyes and a goofy smile. In this memory, Ben is standing across from Malcolm at an operating table, decked out in his scrubs, gloves, cap, and mask, giving Malcolm soft words of encouragement as he cuts into the man under his scapula.

Malcolm blinks, surprised.

“…Dr. Ben Hardy?” Martin inquires. “Are you—?”

“Sorry— _yes_ , I remember Ben.” Malcolm closes his eyes for a moment, trying to remain calm. He’s a surgeon— _he_ , Malcolm Bright, is a surgeon. Or, rather, he’s still probably just a surgical resident, considering he’s only 28 years old. Even so, he’s obviously followed in his father’s footsteps because _of course_ he would. Martin wanted to control every aspect of his life, and Malcolm, blinded as he was by his admiration of the man, was all too glad to let him. “…How’s his wife?”

Martin waves his hand vaguely, “Fine, I think, but you know how hip surgery usually goes with women her age. She’s got a long road of recovery ahead of her.”

“Uh-huh…” Malcolm is hardly listening anymore, eyes scanning the bookcases beside him. Dimly, he realizes that not _all_ of those books belong to Martin; a few of the ones on the topmost shelf to the left belong to Malcolm.

Following his line of regard, Martin says, “You were looking for something earlier, weren’t you?”

Malcolm glances at Martin’s journals. If his father hasn’t been arrested yet, does that mean he isn’t a killer? And if he isn’t a killer, will that twist in reality erase the evidence of his depravity from these books?

As desperately at he wants to have a look, Malcolm knows it’s for the best that he not show his hand too early in the game. He’ll wait until the coast is clear, and then he’ll have another poke around the basement, see what he can find in terms of Martin’s nightly activities…

Thankfully, Malcolm’s able to dodge Martin’s question with a little outside intervention; Ainsley appears in the doorway looking utterly exhausted, her green windbreaker hanging low off her shoulders. “God, what a day…” she sighs.

“Hello, honey,” Martin says, smiling, rising to his feet.

“No hugs,” Ainsley warns him, holding a commanding finger up between them. “A patient vomited on me just before the end of my shift. I need a shower. And a gin.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well,” her gaze migrates to Malcolm, quirking her eyebrows in sarcasm “nothing beats your day, I suppose…Have you been crying?”

“I’m okay,” he lies, although he feels as though another corner of the world he once knew has crumbled into dust. Obviously, Ainsley also decided to follow in their father’s footsteps. She must be an intern at the hospital or a resident herself, another soul sucked into the overpowering stream of Martin’s legacy.

“Sure,” she says, completely flat, like she doesn’t believe him in the slightest. Then her eyes slide back to Martin. “Mom says dinner is in twenty. Malcolm’s water is on the dining room table. I’ll see you both after I’ve rinsed off.”

As she turns away, Martin glances back at Malcolm. “I think a hot meal before bed is just what you need, my boy.”

What Malcolm _needs_ is a gin himself, probably, but he nods and rises cautiously to his feet, concentrating hard on not falling over as Martin ushers him out of his study. He tries not to think of the monster at his back or the would-be damning evidence in the bookshelves behind them as they go. Tonight, he’ll do whatever he has to in order to understand this bizarre situation a little better. And then…

And then he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

~***~

The three of them of them retreat to the upper floor together, Ainsley to shower, Martin to change, and Malcolm to swap his wet socks for a dry pair—although this is only half true. As soon as he’s dry again, he pulls his phone out of his coat pocket, scowls at the 10% battery sign at the top of the screen, and then opens a new internet tab as he sits down on his bed, the focus of his search: _the Surgeon_.

It takes him a second to think of enough key words to narrow down his search to New York City’s most prominent serial killer, but he’s glad that he decided to take a seat before he did because two things are immediately made clear to him: first, _the Surgeon_ is just as real here as it he was in the world that Malcolm remembers, one of the longest standing and most infamous stains on the city’s reputation; and second, _the Surgeon_ is suspected in over a hundred murder cases spanning the last thirty years, although most internet couch detectives claim that this is probably a generously low estimation. There are an additional twenty deaths that suspiciously fit the bill for _the Surgeon’s_ handiwork, but a few minor details suggest that this could instead be the work of one or more copycats. Whatever the case may be, many New Yorkers have come to accept the fact that there is a demon in their midst, one who isn’t going anywhere any time soon, so most disappearances, whether connected or not, are now usually attributed to him, unintentionally transforming this man into some kind of boogeyman with otherworldly powers.

But Malcolm knows he isn’t otherworldly. He’s just a man, albeit a smart one, who’s been left to his own devices for far too long. However, knowing that doesn’t alleviate Malcolm’s own fears of the man. Over _a hundred_ kills…God Almighty. Martin has perfected his game to such an extent that he probably no longer has any fear of discovery or retribution. Usually, that’s a good thing, because that deceptive sense of comfort can open a serial killer up to the possibility of making a mistake, but Martin’s clearly hammered out the kinks in his methodology. He’s on a roll, and he’s not stopping any time soon.

Briefly, Malcolm ponders the cases attributed to a possible copycat. He dreads the thought that he himself could somehow be involved, but sitting there and thinking long and hard about his own history, trying to conjure an image as clear as that of Dr. Ben Hardy in his mind, he isn’t able to produce anything of substance. Even so, he’s still dealing with a monstrous gap in his memories, including whatever gave him the ring of bruises around his neck.

The sudden knock on the door gives him an awful start. He almost drops his phone as he races to close his search results.

 _“Dinner’s ready,”_ Valentia says through the door after an awkward stretch of silence.

“On my way,” Malcolm calls back, pressing his hand against his chest, willing his heartrate to slow. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through this meal without having another panic attack.

The last to arrive in the dining room, Malcolm’s seat is chosen for him. His mother is situated at the head of the table, directly adjacent to him, while Ainsley sits beside him on the right. Martin sits across from him, already sipping at his Malbec, chuckling softly into his wine glass as if someone had just said something amusing to him. They all look uncharacteristically happy to be there, even if Ainsley is somewhat slouched in exhaustion, wet hair pulled back in a sloppy French braid, just another nuclear family, outwardly merry and wholesome, America’s living, breathing dream.

Malcolm’s food has already been plated for him, roast beef with mashed potatoes and buttered asparagus, and his glass of wine has been replaced with water. He doesn’t know how he’s going to stomach any of this, but he picks up his utensils and tries anyway, cutting into his meat mechanically, eyes glued to his plate, wishing the ground would swallow him up already and put an end to his misery.

He knows, however, that he won’t escape this meal unscathed when his mother gently clears her throat and says, “So…you said _‘highly unlikely’_ when I asked you about a possible plus-one for tomorrow evening, Malcolm. That wasn’t a flat-out _‘no’_ …”

Popping a slice of meat into his mouth, Malcolm begins to chew, slowly, buying time as he searches for a response. He should’ve known better than to give her such a vague answer. He always needed to be direct with her, leave no wiggle-room for misinterpretation.

“ _Are_ you seeing someone?” Martin probes, trying to help the conversation along.

Malcolm shakes his head.

Martin quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at him as he takes another sip of wine. Malcolm feels physically ill under his gaze, still slowly chewing, trying to figure out how he’s going to swallow this mouthful without vomiting from his nerves.

His mother, by some unholy miracle, somehow makes matters worse when she says, “I can understand that you probably don’t want to talk about it in any great detail, Malcolm, but you’re more than welcome to invite whoever gave you those bruises.”

All at once, Malcolm unintentionally chomps down on the side of his tongue, Martin chokes on his mouthful wine, and Ainsley bursts out laughing, taking huge, heaving gasps of air as she turns sideways in her seat, bending over to ease her struggle. Malcolm, meanwhile, covers his mouth with his hand, eyes watering, trying to will the pain away as Martin scrambles to wipe up the wine he accidentally spit over the starched, white tablecloth.

“…Get a grip on yourselves,” his mother mutters. “He’s never bothered to explain who he got them from. What am I _supposed_ to think?”

“Mom, _god_ …” Ainsley snorts, gradually getting a hold of herself again. “Malcolm cries whenever he so much as stubs his toe. I don’t think he would enjoy playing it rough.”

She’s right—he doesn’t—but he says nothing, hoping that this topic of conversation will kill itself if nobody continues to help it along.

“Like I said,” his mother sighs, “the invitation still stands.” Then she scowls at Martin, tapping a finger over the burgundy splotches of wine on her tablecloth. “Valentia doesn’t deserve this.”

“You’re absolutely right, my dear. My apologies.”

His response seems to pacific her, enough so that she calmly continues. “Yes, well…while we’re on the topic of tomorrow’s banquet, I just wanted to remind everyone that this year will have the largest attendance yet. If you decide to come—” she side-eyes Malcolm briefly “—you are _not_ allowed to duck out early. I don’t care that you’re leaving before the crack of dawn the following morning. Your camping trip does _not_ take precedence over my fundraiser. I don’t want to have to explain to the mayor why my family is abandoning me left, right, and centre before 8pm _yet again_ , like you did the last three years running.”

Malcolm halts midway through carefully poking the back of his teeth with his tongue, testing the amount of damage he’s done. The second she says _‘camping trip’_ his blood runs cold, prompting a small part of his brain to suggest that there’s a _very_ good chance that a body is stashed somewhere inside the house right now, one that Martin plans to dispose of during their trip.

“I won’t abandon you,” Ainsley pipes in, smiling. “I’m used to coasting on only four hours of sleep anyway.”

“You’ve never gone camping with these two before,” their mother replies, shifting her gaze in obvious disappointment between Martin and Malcolm. “I don’t see what’s so great about sitting around in a vast expanse of bugs and dirt, but _clearly_ it must be something magical…”

“Starry skies, fresh air, the buzz of nature—it can’t be all bad. I’m pretty thrilled to finally have the time off to join them.”

“You’ll _love_ it,” Martin finally chimes in, practically beaming. Seeing him so excited, it’s almost easy to forget there’s a monster lurking beneath this jovial façade. “Malcolm’s gotten to be a better fisherman than me now. We’ll have fresh trout or salmon for almost every meal, guaranteed.”

“Speaking of Malcolm…” Concern creases his mother’s brow as she sizes him up. “You really don’t look so good, darling. Do you still intend to go? Maybe you should stay home this year.”

 _Boy_ does he ever wish that was an option… He almost dreads the thought of being trapped out in the middle of nowhere with Martin _more_ than spending a night under the same roof as the other man. He also isn’t ready to confront the idea that he’s willingly visited one of his father’s killing grounds in the past, bringing to question his _own_ potentially malevolent proclivities. _Did_ Martin succeed in grooming him? Malcolm is a surgeon, after all, which absolutely smacks of Martin’s influence. What other parts of Malcolm’s identity are pinned under his thumb?

More importantly, what about _Ainsley_? Supposedly, this will be her first year joining them on this trip. Is she aware of the tragedy Martin is dragging her into? Does Martin really intend to welcome her into the fold—and this late into the game, no less?

Nervous, Malcolm takes a sip of water to wet his unbearably dry mouth, mindful of the three pairs of eyes trained on him. He doesn’t want to go—he _won’t_ go, and he’ll find a way to keep Ainsley from going, too, but Martin doesn’t need to know that just yet…

“I should be fine,” he says, offering them a small smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.

His mother doesn’t look entirely convinced, but Malcolm’s answer is clearly good enough for Martin, who winks at Ainsley before digging into his meal. Ainsley looks as equally pleased, unaware and unafraid of the troubles that lie ahead.

Numbly, Malcolm continues to work away at his meal, mind drifting as his family chats.

Fortunately, his head injury excuses him from contributing to the dinner conversation in any real depth. Ainsley discusses work—she is, indeed, just beginning her residency, and at NYP/Columbia University no less—probing Martin with the occasional question, asking for recommendations or advice, which seems to please Martin to no end. Martin chats animatedly about his own most riveting cases, some of which Malcolm remembers, others which seem new. Watching him reminds Malcolm of being eight years old again, standing beside his father’s desk as Martin pointed out the anatomical quirks in his drawings, little curiosities he encountered in the operating room. Martin loved his work, and it always showed.

When dessert rolls around, a warm apple pie, Malcolm considers excusing himself for the night. For some reason, he chooses instead to linger, listening as Martin and his mother exchange pleasantries about the other, more mundane aspects of their day. In that moment, Martin allows himself to wonder, perhaps against his better judgement, if Martin— _this_ Martin—is really the Surgeon. His domineering personality is still there, as is his almost morbid fascination with the human body, but that can be explained away by his profession. Was Martin really willing to risk exposing Ainsley, a grown woman, to his _‘other’_ profession in just a few days in a wild bid to indoctrinate her—or, at the very least, have her close at hand while he tries to covertly dispose of a body? And what about Malcolm? What happened 20 years ago, when he tried to call 911? Was nobody sent to follow up on that, or was the call never made? Maybe he never reported his father, or maybe…maybe his father wasn’t the Surgeon.

Then who was?

Martin still makes the most logical sense, but Malcolm can’t help but wish for it not to be true. He wants a father, one who _genuinely_ loves him and wouldn’t risk losing everything for a sadistic kick with a bottle of chloroform and a surgical knife. He wants that steely thread of fear around his heart to unwind. He wants…he just wants to _love_ and be loved, to live an ordinary life with an ordinary family. That’s not too much to ask…

Is it?

The clock is rounding eight o’clock by the time they finish their meal. Ainsley bids them all a good night before she disappears out the door, not tethered to their childhood home like Malcolm currently is with his injury. His mother gives him a kiss on the cheek and then runs off to her study, eager to go over everything yet again for tomorrow, practically vibrating in excitement as she breezes out of the dining room and down the hall. Malcolm and Martin, on the other hand, sit in silence as Valentia clears off the table, leaving Martin with his wine and Malcolm with his water. Malcolm feels conflicted at that point, restless, yet not ready to move. The knot of nerves in his stomach is still there, a quiet agony that shows no signs of fading, but he doesn’t want to move and shatter the illusion that they are just two good men soaking up the warmth of a lovely evening meal.

Martin makes the first move, interrupting this moment of peace when he tilts his head a little to one side, brow gently furrowed, and says, “You look…unbearably sad.”

Malcolm glances down at the glass of water loosely clasped between his hands, watching as a sliver of ice slowly creeps along the surface. His palms are cold and clammy; his whole _body_ is cold and clammy. “I’m just tired.”

“Do you have a headache? Any other pain, perhaps?”

Emotionally, yes, but physically? The pressure behind his eyes has dulled considerably over the course of the day. In fact, he almost feels as right as rain in that respect. “Not really,” he replies. “I should be as good as new tomorrow.”

“Considering the fact that you took a bat to the head, this perplexes me.” Martin swirls the wine inside his glass, aerating it a little more. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. I was so relieved when I saw your results at the hospital. I mean, how many people walk away from such an attack without a traumatic brain injury?”

“I got lucky,” he says, although he feels anything _but_. “Did they apprehend the man who did it?”

Martin shakes his head. “Not to my knowledge. The police said they would call us if they found anything of interest, but I doubt they would reach out to us before they had him safely in custody, because, well…” He gives Malcolm a small quirk of his lips before staring down into his glass. “Your mother and I would probably kill him if we got our hands on him first.”

Subtly, Malcolm leans back in his chair, a minor diversion as he draws his right hand onto his lap, hiding it under the table as his tremor materializes.

After taking a sip of his wine, Martin laughs a little in that dry, not-quite-jovial way of his that suggests he’s trying to hide a less than pleasant thought. When he looks up again, Malcolm sees two blue eyes, cold and hungry. “You don’t happen to remember what he looked like, do you? The only witness was waiting for the bus across the street, but he didn’t see much. It was too dark outside, apparently.”

Malcolm shakes his own head. He doesn’t remember the man, but he _does_ remember the photographs of the Surgeon’s victims, as well as the detailed reports about how agonizingly long it took for them to die. A few of the deaths were even attributed to heart failure, his ‘patients’ too frightened or in too much anguish to see Martin’s procedures through to the very end.

Malcolm wouldn’t wish his father’s ire on anyone.

Suddenly, Martin leans forward, extending his hand. He manages to clamp it around Malcolm’s wrist before Malcolm can react, giving him a gentle squeeze. “If you remember anything, you’ll tell me, right? The police said we should give them a ring if you recall something important.”

Malcolm has to slip his right hand between his thighs to brace his whole arm from trembling. He feels like a fly caught in a web, wings buzzing in futility, alerting the spider to his desperate situation.

“I will,” he breathes, throat tight, voice weak. He’s beginning to feel a little light-hearted, like he just might have another panic attack.

His answer seems to appease Martin, who offers Malcolm what looks like a genuine smile as he brushes the back of Malcolm’s hand with his thumb.

They remain suspended in their tableau for what feels like a small eternity. In reality, it must last for all of three seconds, because Malcolm knows he would’ve passed out if it had extended beyond that. In fact, he’s more focused on trying to remember how to breathe than the sensation of Martin retracting his hand before his father pushes his chair back and rises to his feet.

Martin downs the last little bit of his wine before he deposits his empty glass on the table and says, “You should get to bed. Take some Tylenol if you feel like you need it—but no ibuprofen or aspirin, alright? I’ll come up around eleven to check on you and then again every three or so hours until tomorrow, just in case you take a turn for the worse.”

Malcolm doesn’t offer any protest, just nods.

On his way to the door, Martin stops behind Malcolm’s chair, rests a hand against Malcolm’s shoulder, and leans down to kiss the crown of his head. “I love you,” he says, and then he vanishes, disappearing down the hall towards his own little world beneath their own.

Malcolm waits until he hears the basement door open and close before he relinquishes his deathlike grip on his glass, raising his trembling hands to his face, willing away the tears that threaten to fall.

Valentia sweeps back into the room silently to collect the last of the dishes.

Sagely, she says nothing.

~***~

Malcolm can’t sleep.

He’s beyond exhausted, so it’s not as though he doesn’t try, but the second his head hits the pillow, he hears voices in the distance again—frantic voices, murmuring amongst themselves, drawing nearer as his body prepares to paralyze itself for the night. They frighten him awake, driving him from the would-be sanctuary of his bed.

He retreats to the lounge chair by the window, bracing an arm across the back, seating himself sideways so that he can watch the people on the street below. It’s dark outside, but there’s still heavy foot traffic. Malcolm observes as a man darts across the road to catch a taxi that just pulled up at the intersection, ducking inside before the light turns green. Beside the taxi is a delivery truck, its side plastered with a toothpaste advertisement. It depicts a young woman brushing her teeth, the left side of her bathroom dimly light by a starry sky, the right illuminated by the morning sun. The text above her head reads, _“Freshen up your evenings and start your mornings BRIGHT_!” This amuses him momentarily, thinking of how there are people in the world whose most pressing matters are either getting home in time for dinner or deciding what brand of toothpaste they should buy. He wishes his own life was that simple again.

When people-watching no longer entertains him and his fatigue no longer threatens to pull him under, Malcolm collects his cell phone and plugs it into the wall beside his bed with the spare charger from the side table. On a whim, he decides to scroll through his contact list, but he hardly recognizes any of the names. He has a _feeling_ that he knows them, but no corresponding faces spring to mind. Sadly, Gil’s is missing, among others. This distresses Malcolm more than he anticipated, because while it suggests that Malcolm might not have made that 911 call twenty years ago, it’s as equally as likely that Gil showed up but didn’t survive the night.

Anxious, Malcolm does a quick search for an obituary or missing person’s report, tension bunching up the muscles in his neck and shoulders, hands shaking as he types. It’s with great relief that he finds nothing of the like. In fact, with a little digging, he discovers a small blurb in the news about Det. Arroyo dated back to roughly a month ago, describing how the man just wrapped up a double homicide.

Knowing that Gil is alive and well, Malcolm realizes that what he needs right now to help him sort out this problem is an ally—and the ally that he needs is none other than Gil. He doesn’t know how Gil can help him or how to _convince_ Gil to help him, but Malcolm figures he’ll swing by the precinct tomorrow and just…take it from there. Of course, he’ll need some kind of evidence to get the wheels turning, because there won’t be a cup of tea laced with ketamine on hand to justify arresting one of New York’s most prominent surgeons this time around, which means Malcolm needs to have a poke around the basement to add a little meat to his claim, sooner rather than later.

Unfortunately, his father is still down there.

Martin said he would check up on Malcolm every three or so hours. Hopefully, the man tries to catch a little shuteye between bouts of monitoring Malcolm’s health, at least after he comes up around eleven o’clock. Malcolm doesn’t need long to find a little evidence—assuming, of course, there _is_ any evidence to be found.

In the meantime, Malcolm passes the time by reviewing old news articles on the Surgeon’s killing sprees. The details of the first twenty-three match up exactly with what Malcolm remembers from his father’s case, another damning mark against the man. Those that followed afterward fall into the same category, predominantly involving young women, usually blond, tortured and killed with surgical precision somewhere other than where their bodies were found. Many were discovered out in wooded areas, in and around New York State, making the Surgeon one of the FBIs largest headaches since Samuel Little.

Guilt creeps up on Malcolm as he commends the names of these people to memory, thinking of the ways they suffered, knowing that many of the families affected by the Surgeon’s deeds will likely never find closure, even when Martin is apprehended. He’s cut a little too deeply into their lives, leaving an angry, mangled wound in his wake. The damage he’s already done is irreparable.

A few minutes shy of eleven, Malcolm shuts off his bedroom light and creeps into bed, lying on his side, watching the door. He’s still tired, but he won’t sleep. He _can’t_ sleep, at least until he gets to the bottom of this.

On the hour, he hears the familiar creek of the second last stair from the top shifting under Martin’s weight. The man knocks gently on Malcolm’s door; Malcolm doesn’t respond, instead closing his eyes, stiffening as his door swings open. He feels like a child again, bracing himself for the boogeyman.

The bed dips as Martin takes a seat, and when Martin rests his hand on Malcolm’s arm, Malcolm genuinely flinches, somehow not expecting the contact. He opens his eyes then, heart leaping into his throat as he stares up at his father’s dark figure.

“Sorry,” Martin murmurs. “I didn’t mean to startle you. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Malcolm replies, trying to sound heavy with sleep.

“Any dizziness or nausea? Any pain?”

“No. I took a few Tylenol.”

“Good.” Martin’s silent for a long, uncomfortable stretch, simply staring down at Malcolm. Malcolm wonders if he’s supposed to respond to that, but then Martin gives his arm a comforting squeeze and says, “It’s strange to think of how vulnerable your children are out in the world today, even as adults. Honestly, I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you or your sister.”

Malcolm thinks about the look in Martin’s eyes at the dinner table, that cold desire for retribution, a predatory gleam for blood. 

“I’m alright,” Malcolm breathes.

“You might think so, but it’s not alright—this _situation_ is not alright. A perfect stranger touched your life, made a mark on you, could’ve _killed_ you, and he’s still out there today, unfettered and unpunished. How _dare_ he…”

Momentarily, Malcolm thinks of Martin in his cell at the asylum, hands bound, tethered to the wall like some unruly dog. Even standing on the safe side of the red line, Malcolm could never shake the feeling of danger that prickled at his nerves whenever he visited Martin. He feels the same now, even though Martin’s ire isn’t directed at him, worried about the wellbeing of some goddamn mugger.

As frightened as Malcolm is, he decides to use this opportunity to his advantage, to gain a little clarity, if nothing more. “If you could get your hands on him,” Malcolm asks, “what would you do to him?”

Martin tilts his head back just a little, as if letting his imagination run wild, fantasizing about the chase. After what feels like a small eternity, he lowers his head again and says, “Horrible things, I suppose, but no more than any good father would do…I should let you sleep. I’ll be back around 2.”

Part of Malcolm wants to push a little further, to have Martin walk him through his thought-process, perhaps give a more definitive answer about his work as the Surgeon, but Malcolm is beginning to feel the pull of sleep again, heralded by that faint chorus of voices, and realizes that he needs to cut this conversation short. Regrettably, he says, “Good night.”

“Good night, Malcolm.” His father gives his arm another squeeze and rises from the bed, disappearing out the door and down the hall to the bedroom he shares with his wife.

Almost immediately, Malcolm sits up in bed, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. Then he eyes the digital clock beside his bed, waiting to see if his father will re-emerge unexpectedly. Instead, Malcolm can hear the faint knock of the old water pipes kicking in as the shower undoubtedly turns on in his parents’ en suite, the beginning of Martin’s routine when he usually turns in for the night.

Malcolm throws his quilt aside and rises from his bed, pausing only to pull on a pair of socks and grab his cellphone before he slips out of his room, quietly closing his bedroom door behind him. Then he creeps down the stairs, making his way through the darkened house toward the basement.

Upon opening the basement door, he sees the light.

It’s faint, probably from the small lamp on Martin’s desk. Seeing it gives Malcolm pause, because either Martin forgot to turn it off or he intends to come back down after he’s cleaned up for the evening. If it’s the latter, then Malcolm has a very narrow window within which to operate. Of course, he could retreat upstairs, wait and see if Martin goes to sleep later on, but Martin might simply not. He was notorious for working the night away when Malcolm was little.

Malcolm hesitates, heart pounding, wondering how long he has before Martin returns. Of course, hovering here indecisively is eating up what precious time he has left, so Malcolm finally makes the call to continue, moving swiftly but quietly down the creaking, wooden stairs.

His first stop is the office, eyeing the row upon row of medical journals on the far wall. He scans the oldest, frowning when he realizes that the one he’d been looking for earlier, the one with the details of the quartet, is missing. Curiously, there’s no empty space in its place, the bookcase packed tight, as if he had maybe imagined it that afternoon.

No…He couldn’t have…

Malcolm pulls another journal from the shelf, flipping through the yellowing pages. He recognizes his father handwriting, elegant and evenly spaced, as intricate as his diagrams. Here, Martin sketches an abnormality of a middle-aged woman’s aorta; there, he remarks on the youngest case of Takotsubo cardiomyopathy he’s ever seen, illustrating the temporary ballooning of a young man’s heart, supposedly the result of significant emotional stress. _Broken hearts_ , Martin muses humorously in the margin, _are clearly more troublesome than anyone ever anticipated._

Shelving the book, Malcolm pulls another from the next row down. More notes, more illustrations—but very little on new and unusual surgical methods, at least any that would seem unethical. In fact, while Martin does remark on his own innovative procedures from time to time, he’s included the dates of his operations and the names of any other attending physicians; these entries look like possible publication notes, not blackmail, so Malcolm shelves this journal and pulls out another.

He only finds more of the same.

Confusion creeps up on him and with it an unsettling sense of urgency. Is he wrong about his father, or has Martin simply found a better hiding place for his notes over the years?

Malcolm glances over at his father’s desk.

He returns the journal to the shelf and rounds on the desk, tugging open the top drawer on the right—but it doesn’t budge. It’s locked, as are the others.

Martin never met with any patients in his home office. Nobody ventured down here, beyond the Whitly family and the maid. That Martin would feel it necessary to lock up _anything_ is evidence enough, at least in Malcolm’s mind, that something is horribly amiss here.

Glancing at the clock beside the door, Malcolm realizes he’s been searching for at least ten minutes now, with nothing yet to show for his efforts. If he wants to know what Martin’s stashed away inside his desk, he’ll need to find something with which to open it, but the chances that Martin has a spare key lying around are slim. However, Malcolm knows that there should be a toolbox somewhere down here. In fact, unless someone took the time to completely reorganize the basement, it should be in the last room down the hall, where Martin keeps his camping gear and suitcases, along with the antique wardrobe that his mother inherited from one of her great aunts.

Malcolm steps outside the office and eyes the basement stairs, listening for sounds of movement. Beyond the drumming of his heart, he hears nothing.

There’s a lick of indecisiveness at the back of his mind, telling Malcolm that _now_ would probably be a good time to return to his room. If Martin intends to wile the hours away in his office, he’ll be back soon. And if Malcolm’s caught, he’ll have a difficult time explaining why he’s creeping around his childhood home like a thief in the night.

Unfortunately, Malcolm’s self-preservation is a little faulty. He turns down the darkened hallway, stepping lightly toward the far room on the left. It’s cooler back here. A little damp, too, although the heavy scent of detergent suggests someone washed the floor just recently, probably Valentia. It’s odd to think that Martin would allow anyone to roam so freely down here, but Jessica Whitly would never allow her ancestral home to fall into disrepair, even the deeper and darker cracks and crevices, those far from the caviling eyes of her more elite guests. Naturally, Martin would simply adjust, find a better way to hide his misdeeds.

As Malcolm’s feet carry him down the hall, his mind retreats to another time and place, one where he walked this same path as a child, stockinged feet cold against the cement floor, feeling nauseated and hazy but still determined to put his suspicions to the test. It feels like he’s watching his future unfold through the lens of the past, gently pulling open that final door to behold a room illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the solitary slit of a window on the far wall. The clutter here is craftily stacked to make space for the wardrobe on the right, a mountain of cardboard boxes, traveling bags, and toolkits crammed together with a wide variety of other personal items, such as a very old bike, the one his mother owned when she was in university. She wasn’t keen on hoarding ‘junk,’ but it was her last gift from her uncle before he passed away and sometimes nostalgia trumped utility in a way that was hard to describe in words.

Of course, of all the million little peculiarities packed into that room, the one that steals his breath away is the box.

The one with the girl.

Malcolm’s internal reel keeps rolling as he approaches the box, sitting all on its lonesome before the pile, unburdened by other boxes or rubbish. There’s no lock on the front latch, but his memory of it compels him forward, hand outstretched, trembling as he touches the silver-blue fabric. It takes barely any effort at all to lift the lid.

Behind him, Malcolm hears the soft shuffle of feet in the doorway.

He turns around suddenly, startled by the tall silhouette blocking his only exit—but then the room is bathed in light as his mother flips the small switch beside the door.

“Why are you still awake?” she asks, head cocked curiously to one side as she stares past him at the opened box.

Malcolm follows her gaze—and is simultaneously relieved and disappointed to see nothing inside, just empty space and more questions, which is par for the course now, really.

He closes the lid gently and then gestures to the clutter. “I couldn’t remember if I packed anything for our trip yet,” he lies.

“Your father was down here earlier,” she replies, eyeing the mountain warily. “He made quite the mess searching for your fishing gear, but he’s told me that everything is ready for your trip. You only need to worry about your clothes—but that can wait until tomorrow.” She steps further into the room, sizing him up, clearly concerned. “You look sad, Malcolm. Are you alright?”

He wishes he could tell her the truth, that he _is_ sad, that he’s disturbed by this shift in reality and almost too afraid to determine what’s real and what’s not. He knew who his enemy was before, and he knew how to deal with him, but now…now he could just be _crazy_ for all he knows, more so than he was before this unsettling change.

“It’s just the concussion,” he replies, when what he really wants to say is, _‘Please, help me.’_

His mother shrugs, one elegant eyebrow raised, as if she only half-believes him. “You would probably feel better if you stayed in bed, like your father suggested. But…doctors really do make the worst patients, I suppose.”

Malcolm smiles at her humor. She still looks suspicious, though, so he changes the topic: “What brings _you_ down here at this hour of the night?”

Fortunately, she takes the bait, whirling around to open her antique wardrobe and reveal a row of carefully bagged dresses. She unzips the garment bag on the far left and pulls out a section of emerald fabric; Malcolm remembers the dress immediately, one of his mother’s favorite evening gowns.

“I’m divided on whether I should wear this one or the silver one…” she muses aloud.

“This one,” Malcolm opines. It was unlike anything Malcolm had seen most women wear at the many other social events his family either hosted or frequented. It was a unique dress for a unique woman.

“Are you sure? It’s not too Christmas-y, is it?”

“Not at all.”

She throws him a smile over her shoulder, then carefully tucks the fabric back into the bag before unhooking the hanger from the wardrobe. “I have a feeling you’re just saying that because you know that I love it so much.”

“It’s a beautiful dress.”

She closes the wardrobe and turns, winking at him. “Clearly, you inherited my taste for fashion.”

He did, and they both know it, though he’d been trying to tone down his vanity in recent years.

“Nice deflection, by the way,” she continues, approaching him with her free hand outstretched, reaching up to cup the side of his face. Unconsciously, Malcolm leans into her warm touch. “Go to bed, darling. There’s nothing you need to worry about right now. In fact, I won’t be hurt if you decide to skip out on my function tomorrow. I know you need your rest.”

“No,” Malcolm says softly. All he wants in that small, simple moment is to feel close to her; he’ll go to her event, even if hates the thought of mingling with the old and stodgy upper crust members of New York society. “I’ll be there.”

Despite her obvious concern, her face brightens at his promise. She gives him a gentle pat on the cheek and then gestures him toward the door, following close on his heels all the way up to the second floor, where he then quietly retreats to his bedroom. There, he takes up his seat by the window again, feeling small and listless, watching the ordinary folk down below living their perfectly ordinary lives.

A minute or so later, Malcolm hears the telltale signs of his father moving past his door and down the stairs again.

~***~

Despite being a consummate insomniac, Malcolm feels like death the following morning.

He didn’t sleep at all—didn’t even touch the bed, beyond crawling under the covers and pretending to be trapped in the deepest of slumbers whenever his father dropped by to check up on him. Going through the motions of the morning, showering, shaving, and dressing for the day, does nothing to help him shake the dizzying sense of exhaustion. In fact, without the bagel and cup of coffee Valentia graciously brings up for him around seven o’clock to fuel him for the day, Malcolm doesn’t know how else he would’ve found the strength to grab his things and stumble out the door.

It takes about a minute, but he’s able to hail a cab before anyone notices he’s left, although they idle by the curb for an agonizing moment as Malcolm tries to wrack his brain for the precinct’s address. Eventually, he’s forced to google it, trying to ignore the way the cabbie eyes him warily in the rear view mirror before pulling out into traffic, cranking up _Wham!_ ’s ‘ _Wake me up before you go-go’_ on the radio to avoid conversation.. Malcolm is well aware that he looks like someone on Day Leave from a mental asylum. He feels about as anxious as a person can be when they’ve skipped out on their anxiety medication.

He begins to feel a little like his old self again, though, when they pull up in front of the precinct. He gives the cabbie a generous tip and wobbles out onto the pavement, taking a moment to get his bearings before he heads up the front steps.

Halfway up, he sees Det. Dani Powell waltzing out the door and stops.

It takes her a moment to notice the strange man watching her, but eventually she slows to a halt a few steps above him, head cocked curiously to one side. Something like recognition flashes across her face, giving him hope. “You…” she says, pointing at him, as if trying to direct her brain to the most relevant information for this precise moment. “I know you.”

“Do you?” he asks, wondering if this is a sign. Surely, the past 24 hours were just a figment of his imagination. He’s returning to his senses now.

“Yes,” she finally says triumphantly, switching from an accusatory finger to an open-palmed invitation for a handshake. “Dr. Malcolm Whitly, right? I’m Det. Dani Powell, and I’m in charge of your case.”

Malcolm feels the swell of hope inside his chest suddenly vanish, leaving him feeling vaguely winded. He takes her hand and gives it a gentle shake, trying to hide his disappointment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”

She offers him a smile, which is somewhat muted by her obvious confusion. “Did you just leave the hospital? I was about to head over there to see if you were awake.”

“I left yesterday, actually.”

“I’m glad you’re back on your feet already. The paramedics said you took quite the blow to the head. I thought you might need more time to recover.”

The way Dani’s eyeing him, Malcolm can tell she hasn’t really changed her mind.

To head off any conversation about his health, Malcolm asks, “Was there something you wanted to tell me? At the hospital, I mean.”

“I wanted to ask you if you could remember anything about the attack.”

He shakes his head. “Not presently, no. There are many things I can’t seem to remember, unfortunately, beyond the attack.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Dani glances over her shoulder at the precinct, then back at Malcolm, confusion reignited. “Is there a reason you came here today? Regrettably, we don’t have new information about the man who assaulted you yet.”

“Actually, I…” Malcolm licks his lips, suddenly conscious of how dry his mouth feels. Clearly, he should’ve put more thought into this plan before trying to execute it. “I have something of a hypothetical question for you, I guess, about—”

“Dr. Whitly?”

Their heads snap in the direction of the voice, up at the top of the stairs.

There stands Det. Gil Arroyo, smiling benevolently upon them both.

Even with his hope trampled underfoot, it’s hard not to feel a small spark of joy at the sight of his oldest friend, the closest thing Malcolm’s had to a father figure over the last twenty years of his life. Gil always had that effect on him, even when he was exasperated by Malcolm’s antics. Gil knew how to guide lost souls to a better purpose.

Malcolm smiles in return as Gil approaches, although he can’t help but feel a tad curious. “Do we know each other?” he asks, wondering if their relationship is somehow the realest of them all in this backward world.

“We do. I’m Det. Gil Arroyo, although you’ve probably already forgotten me,” Gil chuckles. He glances at Dani as he gestures towards Malcolm. “This is the surgeon who pulled the bullet from my arm a couple of years ago.”

Dani blinks in surprise. “Small world. This is the guy from my Fifth Avenue case.”

Gil whistles softly, returning his attention to Malcolm. “Small world indeed…Well, Dani’s one of our very best. You’re in good hands, kid.”

Even as his heart sinks again, realizing that their connection is just another transient and unsubstantial thing, Malcolm smiles at _‘kid.’_ “Thank you. How is your arm feeling now?”

Rotating his shoulder slightly, Gil says, “Perfect! I thought there might be at least a little nerve damage, but I can hardly tell I was ever shot. You have talented hands, doctor.”

 _‘My father’s hands,’_ Malcolm thinks unbidden, fighting to maintain his smile. To Gil, he says, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“And yourself?” In that moment, it seems that Gil looks at him— _really_ looks at him, concern creeping into his expression as he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and gives Malcolm a very quick once-over. “You look worn out. I’m surprised you’re already up and about.”

Malcolm’s a little sick of hearing that, but he just rolls with it. “Tired, but otherwise alright. I got lucky, I guess.”

“I’ll say. Do you—”

There’s a little jingle just then that Malcolm recognizes as Gil’s text notification trill on his work phone. Predictably, Gil doesn’t hesitate to whip out said phone and scan the message.

“Got to go?” Dani asks.

“I’m afraid so.” Pocketing the phone once again, Gil offers his hand for a shake. Once he has Malcolm in his grasp, he says, “It was nice to see you again, all things considered. I wish you a speedy recovery, doctor.”

“ ‘Malcolm’, please,” he corrects Gil, more on impulse than anything else. It feels wrong to go by a title he hardly feels worthy of; it’s difficult, too, to be called something so impersonal by Gil. “And thank you.”

Gil pulls his hand back, offering Malcolm a warm smile as he jogs past him down the stairs.

When he’s almost at the bottom, Malcolm suddenly remembers why he came here in the first place. Calling after Gil, he asks, “Have you ever worked the Upper East Side, Detective?”

Coming to an abrupt halt on the second last step, Gil glances back at him, confused. “Yeah, quite a few times…Why do you ask?”

Malcolm licks his dry lips, nervously clenching his right hand into a fist to keep it steady. He can feel his heart beating a little harder against his ribs. “What about twenty years ago? I called the cops to my house one night—215 East 61st Street. I’m pretty sure you were the officer that answered.”

“Twenty years ago?” Squinting down at the ground for a moment, Gil searches himself for an answer.

Malcolm watches him with bated breath. Somehow— _somehow_ he knows someone showed up that night.

It has to have been Gil.

Slowly, Gil raises his head again, relaxing as the answer comes to him. “Twenty years ago exactly would’ve been the turn of the century—I would’ve been in New Jersey then. I didn’t transfer to New York until 2001. Sorry. You must be thinking of someone else.”

Numbly, Malcolm slowly nods.

Gil flashes him another warm smile and a wave, and then he continues his trek to his car.

“What happened twenty years ago?” Dani asks.

Good question.

Malcolm shakes his head, confused and deeply disappointed. “I thought I called the police, because my father…well, my father is…”

Patiently, Dani waits for his answer. He wants _so badly_ to tell her what’s been eating him up inside, but he knows how crazy he would sound. He doesn’t have an ounce of evidence to back up his suspicions about his father.

Disheartened, he closes his mouth and glances at the street, looking for a taxi. He should go.

But then Dani asks, “Did your father hurt you?”

 _‘In so many ways,’_ Malcolm thinks, the confession perched on the tip of his tongue. More delicately, he says, “I just…I thought there was a monster in my house. To be honest, I don’t know if I actually called the cops that night, and this mystery has been driving me nuts lately.”

“215 East 61st Street?” she clarifies, as observant as ever. “I can see if we sent anyone out to investigate.”

Trust Dani to give him hope when he was about to throw in the towel. He’ll take any help he can get in figuring out what happened that night.

“That would be _incredible_ ,” he says, the tension in his neck and shoulders dissipating. He relaxes his hand, too, which no longer threatens to shake. “Do you have my number?”

“Not yours in particular,” she replies, reaching into her coat pocket to pull out her notepad and pen. She scribbles down his address and then hands it to him to add his phone number. “No promises on how soon I’ll find out. I’m a bit swamped at the moment.”

“Take your time.” He hands her back the pad and pen, trying not to seem too excited. “The fact that you’re willing to look into this _at all_ for me is…well, it’s _beyond_ appreciated.”

There’s a quirk of a smile at the corner of her lips. “I don’t know how you can go _beyond_ appreciated, but…” She jots a number at the very bottom of the page and tears it off, offering it to Malcolm. “If you remember anything about the attack, this is how you can reach me. Don’t hesitate to call, even if it’s about something small.”

“Absolutely.” He whips out his phone, adding her to his contacts list immediately. Oddly enough, her number looks familiar.

“Before you go,” she quietly adds, staring at him— _really_ staring at him, as if she’s almost afraid this is the last time she’ll see him, “did you maybe want me to give you a lift to the hospital? No offense, but I have no idea how you’re still standing. You look a little worse than exhausted.”

Though he’s sorely tempted to take her up on that offer, thinking of the hospital and lying around all day sends a chill down his spine. He can’t afford to fall asleep. Not yet. Not until he figures this whole mess out.

“I’m fine,” he lies, hating that he can’t just be honest with her, “but thank you for the offer.”

“…Are you _sure_?”

Dani’s got that look in her eyes, that dogged need to see someone safely through whatever disaster they’ve trapped themselves in. He swallows the lump in his throat. He wants to lie again, but that’s a difficult feat with a walking lie-detector standing right in front of him. Knowing her, Dani is probably already thinking about what route she should take through traffic to get him to the hospital.

Remarkably, Dr. Edrisa Tanaka, of all people, swoops in to save him.

Well, she doesn’t _swoop_ , per se, so much as stand awkwardly on the stairs eight or so feet to their left, lingering in the periphery of Malcolm’s vision like an agent from the great beyond. When Malcolm is finally consciously aware of her and cranes his head to stare at her head on, the confused look on her face morphs into unbridled delight. _Then_ she swoops in, appearing at Malcolm’s side in a heartbeat.

Dani visibly flinches in surprise at her sudden appearance. “Edrisa?”

“Hey, Dani,” Edrisa replies, though she’s staring at Malcolm. “Hey, Malcolm. Long time, no see.”

Malcolm blinks at her, truly baffled. Then an image comes to him like a bolt from the blue—sitting in a classroom beside her, some old professor droning on about the vascular system as row upon row of students frantically type out their notes. He’s then assaulted by a sense of familiarity, smiling as he finally realizes how they know one another. “Edrisa Tanaka? I haven’t seen you since med school.”

Edrisa blushes, clearly flattered that he recognizes her at all. She fiddles with the handle of her satchel, then gives a small, awkward laugh and says, “What brings you here? I mean, I _hope_ you aren’t a victim of a crime, obviously. Or a criminal. Although, I suppose it would have to be one of the two, otherwise, well, I mean—”

“—why would I be here?” he interjects gently, just as she’s beginning to get that deer-in-the-headlights look from tying herself into a verbal knot. Seeing her here has just given him a _brilliant_ idea. “It’s a long story…You wouldn’t happen to be free for a coffee right now, would you?”

It’s Edrisa’s turn to look surprised. “Uh— _yes_ , absolutely. I was just about to head off for breakfast, actually, if you’d care to join me.”

“Perfect.” He returns his attention to Dani, who looks bewildered by their exchange, and offers his hand for a shake. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Detective. Hopefully, we’ll speak again soon.”

Her lips twitch into a smile again, clearly amused as she gives his hand a gentle squeeze in return. “Likewise. Take care of yourself, Malcolm.”

He smiles at her but doesn’t bother lying again by promising that he will.

As Dani wanders down the stairs toward her own parked car, Malcolm turns to Edrisa and says, “If you’re willing to indulge me by listening to what might very well be the craziest thing you’ll ever hear, then breakfast is on me.”

~***~

Cutting into her sausage, Edrisa pops the slice in her mouth, chews on it thoughtfully for a moment, and then swallows. “To be clear,” she says, “you only _think_ you know who the Surgeon is—you don’t actually _know_ if you’re right?”

Malcolm pushes his scrambled eggs around on his plate with his fork, wondering if he should’ve opened with something a little less fantastical than _‘I think one of the attendees at my mother’s charity function tonight is New York City’s most notorious serial killer.’_ All things considered, though, Edrisa always took a fancy to the fantastical. She just liked odd things in general. Like Malcolm.

“It’s hard to explain,” he sighs, “but if we want to be pedantic, then…yes. While my suspicions are ample, there’s a dearth of evidence.”

“Relax,” she chuckles, pausing to take another bite. “If you had evidence, I’d be admonishing you for telling _me_ instead of any number of the officers back at the precinct. Suspicions are fine. I can work with suspicions.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?” he asks, relaxing marginally in his seat.

“Far from it. In fact, have you ever read ‘ _The Gift of Fear_ ’?”

Though the title sounds familiar to him, he can’t recall if he ever has. Which is odd, since keeping up to date on the latest research regarding the psychology of fear was supposed to be an old pet hobby of his. 

He finally scoops a proper portion of his scrambled eggs onto his fork. “Perhaps,” he replies before taking a bite.

Edrisa leans back in her chair, eyeing a group of teenagers wandering past the diner’s front window. They look happy, chatting amiably amongst themselves, smiling as if they’d just had a good laugh. “It was written by Gavin de Becker,” she elaborates. “He co-designed the MOSAIC assessment system used to screen threats made to government officials. His book is _absolutely_ fantastic because it teaches people how to recognize the imperceptible warning signs of violence. It’s basically an instruction manual on how to trust your gut instinct. Going off what I’ve read, while you might not _know_ why someone has made you feel uneasy, there are things that they’ve either said or done that prompted you to question whether or not you should really trust them. In short, you’re not crazy.”

Even though he doesn’t have much faith in his abilities to perceive anything clearly anymore, he’s glad somebody does. “Good, because with this head injury, I’m honestly having a hard time trusting myself.”

“Head injuries suck,” she sympathizes, “and the idea that the Surgeon is going to be chumming it up with your family and the rest of New York City’s elite tonight _is_ kind of bananas, but you always had this kind of preternatural second sense when it came to diagnosing the most difficult patients, so tell me: _what_ about this person sets you off?”

“He’s a narcissist,” is his immediate response. Even though he hasn’t interacted with _this_ Martin Whitly long enough to get an accurate reading on him, he decides to go with what he knows about the man he remembers, the one from his nightmares. “Grandiose sense of self-importance, entitled, possessive, needs constant praise and admiration—he has all the classic symptoms. He also presents the hallmarks of someone with antisocial personality disorder. He’s charming to your face, but he doesn’t feel much in the way of guilt or empathy; he knows how to lie to people and exploit them; he—

“—sounds like many of the more successful surgeons I know,” Edrisa gently interjects before taking a swig of her coffee. Nearing the end of her current cup, she waves across the diner at the waitress, hoping to catch her attention. “Not that you _shouldn’t_ be leery of him, because sociopaths can do crazy, stupid things, but what makes you think _this_ person is the Surgeon?”

 _God_ , he wishes he had been successful last night when he was tearing apart his father’s office… He knows that a person can have a personality disorder and still manage to be a productive member of society, the kind that doesn’t go around killing just for the hell of it, so Edrisa isn’t wrong for questioning his ability to analyze his father objectively.

The waitress wanders by just then, coffee pot in hand, looking a little bleary-eyed from the 7am rush. She pours Edrisa her second cup and Malcolm his fifth, giving him a curious side-long look before she ambles off to top up everyone at the next table over.

Malcolm takes a sip, pausing a moment to enjoy the gentle burn at the back of his throat, and then says. “He has a journal.”

Having just taken a bite of her buttered toast, Edrisa frowns, chews a little, and then covers her half-full mouth with her hand as she mumbles, “I thought you didn’t have any evidence?”

“I don’t—not really.” He knows how bad this must sound, _knowing_ that concrete evidence exists but having nothing in hand to show for it. “I only caught a glimpse of it, but I saw that he had drawn these rather… _unusual_ anatomical diagrams that detailed something along the lines of what the Surgeon had probably done to one of his victims.”

“Only a ‘glimpse’?” she grits out before swallowing.

“I was interrupted, so I put the book back on the shelf—and I _absolutely_ regret doing that, because now it’s been moved. I can’t confirm what I saw.”

“Okay…but supposing he _did_ draw something that the Surgeon might’ve done to one of his victims, a lot of those details are, unfortunately, public knowledge. It might peg him as a weirdo, but that’s hardly a crime.”

“But not _all_ of these details have been released to the public.” Malcolm edges a little further forward in his seat, excited and nervous and so desperately hoping Edrisa doesn’t shut him down once she hears what he’s been concocting since he first saw her this morning. “In fact…would I be correct in assuming that _you_ know more than most people? I mean, as a medical examiner, is it possible that you’ve worked on one of the Surgeon’s victims?”

She squints at him as though somewhat suspicious of how he figured that out. However, there’s also a hint of a smirk on her lips, as though she’s almost flattered he would assume she had such high clearance. “You _would_ , in fact, be correct,” she replies. “I’ve had to look over twelve of his victims so far—but I can’t share any of the details outside the precinct, for obvious reasons. Sorry.”

“I don’t need you to tell me what you know. I’m just assuming that his work is… _unique_ enough that you could tell whether or not someone had intimate knowledge of the case, _should_ you decide to probe them for that kind of information.”

“I mean…yeah. The guy sure knows his way around the heart. In fact, I’m pretty sure he had to invent half the tools he used on his victims to get the kind of results I’ve seen so far.”

Malcolm nods, because he knows, for a fact, that his father _had_ invented a series of tools to carry out his grisly work, some of which made their way into legal practice after his incarceration.

Edrisa glances out the window again, smiling at a giggling toddler in a stroller passing by with her father. The five second reprieve from their heavy conversation seems to give Edrisa a moment to take a mental step back and evaluate the nature of what Malcolm is suggesting, because she suddenly whips her head back around again, eyes wide, looking completely overwhelmed. “Oh my _god_ —you want me to _talk_ to this maniac?!”

A few of the diner’s other patrons crane their heads in Edrisa’s direction, startled by her outburst. Embarrassed, Edrisa slides down an inch in her seat.

After everyone has returned their attention to their meals, Malcolm calmly says, “Yes.”

Edrisa still looks as though she’s about to have a heart attack, so Malcolm sits there in silence until she finally asks, “How am I supposed to do that without him knowing I’m interrogating him?”

Pleased that she’s at least willing to _entertain_ the idea, Malcolm smiles. “You’ll be just another doctor in a sea of heart surgeons talking shop at a charity event. A good number of the people attending my mother’s function tonight will be my father’s colleagues, and some of them are the most talented physicians in New York City. I can guarantee you, one of them will be the Surgeon.”

“Holy cow,” she breathes, taking a rather long pull of her coffee, as if secretly wishing it was something a little stronger. “I mean, that’s not a half-bad idea, but…” She trails off, frowning briefly before a small smile graces her lips. “Does this mean that I get to be your plus-one at the event?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay… _okay_ , this _might_ be fun. If I hear anything odd, I’ll just give Det. Arroyo a call. And if I don’t, well…how often does a girl get a chance to schmooze with the richest people in New York City, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Quick question, though—is there a reason you aren’t telling me who you think the Surgeon is ahead of time? I’m assuming you don’t want me to be biased.”

He nods.

He _needs_ her unbiased opinion to know he isn’t crazy.

Straightening in her seat, Edrisa drums her hands excitedly against the table. “This is going to be _thrilling_. I guess you can count me in.”

Malcolm leans back slightly, relieved that she took his proposal better than he was expecting.

With any luck, they just might get to the bottom of this problem before the day is through.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Careful, Malcolm...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I sincerely apologize. Life has been so incredibly busy as of late, but thankfully the return of _Prodigal Son_ has finally given me the burst of energy I need to finish this story. 
> 
> You might have noticed that this story now says it has 3 chapters. This is because I decided to give the epilogue its own chapter instead of keeping the much shorter one I had originally written. I should be posting the epilogue in a couple of days.
> 
> Enjoy!

~***~

It’s to Malcolm’s great relief that his keys unlock the door to his old place, the spacious loft on one of his late grandfather’s properties that his mother gifted to him on his twentieth birthday. However, it is also a little disconcerting that he finds the place remarkably…unchanged.

Given how much of his life has been turned on its head in this world thanks to his father’s influence, it seems odd that his sanctuary would remain the same. It suggests, to some degree, that the man he remembers, the one behind bars, had always made a significant impact on even the most trivial aspects of his life. For example, Malcolm finds the same books tucked away in his shelves, the same clothes hanging in his closest, and the same arsenal of axes, swords, and knives mounted on the living-room wall. Even his furniture is arranged precisely how he remembers it.

The only thing missing in this reality is his sleep restraints, which makes for a puzzling piece of evidence in favor of Martin’s innocence; if his father isn’t a serial killer in this world, then Malcolm probably doesn’t suffer from sleep terrors, though that theory wobbles precariously over the edge when Malcolm discovers a few prescription bottles in his medicine cabinet. They’re the same drugs he was taking for his anxiety and depression prior to falling down this rabbit hole—although, as a surgeon, it’s conceivable that he needs them now to cope with whatever horrors he encounters in the operating room. 

He thought that he would find relief after putting a little distance between himself and Martin, but being ‘home’ is stressing him out almost just as much. He’s more tired than he’s ever been in all his life, yet his bed looks no more appealing here then the one back in his childhood home. He has no idea how he’s going to survive until the charity event tonight without collapsing.

Thankfully, pacing helps him battle the worst of his fatigue, although he decides to throw the stairs into his little exercise routine when his eyes begin to droop shut and he subsequently bumps into the back of his living room couch. This turns out to be a better decision than he initially thought because he finally finds something entirely unexpected.

The second floor of his loft is where he keeps his office. He’s relieved that it’s still there, but the corkboards on the far wall are covered with something other than usual paraphernalia associated with the sleuthing he does in his spare time. They’re decorated with pictures and cards now. He’s featured in a few of these photographs, which are shots taken in the hospital with his patients, who are predominantly children. There are hand-drawn images, too, of smiling stick figures, flowers, and hearts, as well as a particularly amusing cartoon of something that looks like a pig riding a gurney down a corridor, doctors and nurses frantically chasing after it. The scribbled writing on this one says, ‘ _Thank you DR Witly.’_ Below it, an adult added, _‘Sincerely, Ella.’_

Malcolm touches the image with something like reverence. Vaguely, he remembers a girl named Ella. She needed a new heart. After a gruelling operation, he was finally able to give her one.

Overwhelmed by this new memory, Malcolm takes a seat at his desk in the corner. Clearly, his world has shifted even further into this strange new reality. 

Though for better or worse, he doesn’t yet know enough to say.

~***~

“You look…functional, I suppose.”

About an hour ago, Malcolm showered, shaved, and carefully combed back his hair the same way it appeared in all the photographs he found of himself in his apartment, hopefully to help with the illusion that he’s the same Dr. Malcolm Whitly everyone knows and loves. Unfortunately, he still looks dog-tired, even dressed up in his best evening suit. He stretched out on his couch at one point in a fit of desperation, just for a little doze, but the voices called to him again from the great abyss, too softly for him to discern what they were saying. He wishes he knew why he _was_ suffering from this particular hallucination, but it’s been moved to the bottom of his list of concerns, considering he has an important event coming up and still looks like he should be checking into a psych ward.

“There’s only so much I can do,” Malcolm mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “You look stunning, though.”

It’s fortunate that Edrisa apparently knows how to dress for high society because it’ll be easier diverting everyone’s attention to her while they mingle. She’s wearing an elegant black evening gown with a sapphire necklace and earrings set in white gold, the right kind of combo for one of his mother’s functions.

Edrisa winks at him in appreciation as she closes the loft door behind herself. “I hit up the opera every once in a while with my aunt, so I’ve invested in some half-way decent evening wear over the years. Your suit _is_ nice, by the way, but the dark circles under your eyes and the bruises around your neck are… _yikes_ , less so. We’re going to have to do something about those before we head out, buster.”

“Like what?” He’s already considered wearing a scarf, but that would be its own eyesore for an event like this. His mother would tear it off him the second he walked through the door. 

“I’ve been thinking about that since I saw you this morning.” Edrisa walks over to his kitchen island and drops both her evening bag and a satchel on the counter. She pops the latter open and rummages around inside, eventually producing a bottle of foundation.

This startles a small laugh out of Malcolm. “You’re going to doll me up? I’m dead on my feet, and it shows. I think I might be beyond help.”

“My parents are morticians, and my cousin is a professional make-up artist in the film industry. _Trust me_. I can make the dead come to life.” She pauses. “Not _literally_ —but you know what I mean.”

He does.

And _she_ does indeed do a remarkable job of it.

It takes her a while, but Edrisa cleans him up quite nicely. He looks ‘normal’ tired rather than ‘crisis mode’ tired when she’s through with him. He knows no one will notice the bruises unless they’re actively looking for them. 

He almost touches his throat as he’s inspecting her handiwork in the bathroom mirror, but she gently slaps his hand away before he can ruin it. “ _No_ touching,” she warns him as she tosses the various containers of primer and make-up back into her satchel. “And _definitely_ no scratching… It doesn’t itch, does it?”

“No,” he says.

“Good.” She drops the last bottle of foundation into her bag, stares up at him through their shared reflection, and point-blank asks, “How _did_ you get those bruises?”

He doesn’t know why the question surprises him. She just spent the last half hour staring at his throat, but hearing it makes him feel oddly embarrassed because he _still_ doesn’t remember.

“…I don’t know,” he says after an uncomfortable stretch of silence.

“They clearly predate your recent attack,” she says, as if trying to help him jog his memory, “and they look like they belong to a man.”

Her observation rattles him. Intuitively, he _knows_ they belong to a man, but he doesn’t know what that means. Someone tried to strangle him, but why? And who?

His father?

He shudders.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” he asks, knowing she’s seen more strangulation cases than he likely ever will. Whatever the bruise, whatever the break, she can tease the story out of any injury in due time.

“Yep.” Edrisa closes her satchel and lifts it off the bathroom counter. Before she turns to leave, she says, “Whoever did that either had no idea how to strangle someone or they weren’t trying very hard to kill you.” 

~***~

The Mezzanine at 55 Broadway has been one of his mother’s favorite venues for as long as Malcolm can remember. It’s a modern, spacious hall that can easily fit 300 guests, a concrete beauty with chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the Financial District of New York City. His mother had relied on the owners to provide the usual furniture for the event, the standard lounges, chairs, and standing tables for her guests, but the décor is entirely her own: the tall pink and white flower arrangements, the golden leaves, the soft lights, the long table of silent auction items adjacent to the bar—everything artfully arranged, as usual. Malcolm can already see a number of people admiring the scenery, inevitably circling closer to his mother to applaud her for her hard work.

Seeing so many people here tonight taking delight in that work makes his heart ache.

His mother became a social pariah overnight when his father was arrested, her good name smeared beyond repair. Even her not-so-distant relatives, the ones who admitted they didn’t believe that she was an accomplice in Martin’s work, told her that they couldn’t afford to be associated with her anymore. From that point onward, it was just her and her two children, so utterly, utterly alone. Martin had taken her light and snuffed it out in a way that was truly unique to any of his other victims.

Tonight, that haunted woman seems like a distant memory in comparison to the glowing revenant currently conversing with a few friends halfway across the room. He honestly can’t remember the last time he’s seen her so carefree and happy, talking animatedly with her guests, her laughter a lovely trill above the soft violin music from the quartet in the corner. It seems almost impossible that her expression brightens even further when her gaze falls on Malcolm.

“Brace yourself,” he whispers to Edrisa, whose arm is linked with his, her attention fixed on the nearest floral arrangement.

“Hm?” is all that she’s able to say, puzzled, before Jessica Whitly descends upon them.

“Is this your plus one?” his mother beams, somewhat breathless, as if she almost can’t believe he finally has a date. To Edrisa, she says, “ _Welcome_ , my dear. I’m Jessica Whitly, Malcolm’s mother.”

“This is Dr. Edrisa Tanaka,” Malcolm introduces her. “We were in med school together.”

“It’s a pleasure meeting you again, Mrs. Whitly,” Edrisa chimes in sweetly.

“Oh—!” His mother looks so pleasantly surprised, Malcolm half expects her to pass out from the excitement of it all. “I _thought_ I recognized you. I apologize—it’s been so long! I didn’t realize Malcolm kept in touch with anyone from his school days.”

“We bumped into each other again just recently,” Edrisa replies carefully, slipping into their rehearsed script. On the way over, they agreed that it would be for the best if no one knew that she was a medical examiner, lest ‘the Surgeon’ catch wind of it and play games at avoiding her for the rest of the evening.

“At the hospital?” Jessica inquires, trying to suss out all the juicy little details. She always did love a good workplace romance. “What’s your specialty my dear? Are you also in surgery?”

Edrisa shakes her head. “I’ve shifted more into research over the years. I work for a lab that’s investigating a number of genes that might be responsible for the comorbidity between congenital heart defects and kidney and urinary tract anomalies, primarily in children. I found out Malcolm operated on one of my patients recently, so I reached out for a chat. He told me that you were hosting a charity event for the Children’s Heart Foundation.” She glances over at the silent auction table, which is laden with a series of rather spectacular paintings. “I always hoped to meet the champion behind the brunt of our funding someday. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that that was you.”

As usual, Jessica Whitly looks horribly flattered by the compliment, but she flashes a quick look at Malcolm that he knows means _‘I_ **_sincerely_ ** _hope she’s more than just a work colleague’_ before waving over a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes. 

“My dear, you are the real champion here,” his mother replies, just now catching sight of someone waving to her off to their left. “I’m so happy you could come. We always have a number of surgeons in attendance, but so few of the actual researchers show up. Please, enjoy yourself this evening!”

His mother gives Malcolm a wink before diving back into the crowd, off to play her favorite role, hostess to the rich and famous. 

“Your mom is so nice,” Edrisa says as she takes a flute of champagne.

Malcolm grabs one for himself and takes a sip. Surprisingly, his fatigue has finally given up the fight. He feels more alert than he has all day. “She is pretty wonderful.”

Taking a deep breath, then a healthy swig of her champagne, Edrisa says, “Okay, boss. Where do we start?”

~***~

It takes almost an hour to work their way around to Martin.

Thankfully, Edrisa is the sort of person who genuinely likes to read scientific journals in her spare time because she pulls off the ‘researcher’ façade beautifully. The twenty or so conversations that they have with various other surgeons before they get to Martin run as smoothly as Malcolm could have hoped, although he’s still disconcerted that he ‘remembers’ more people than he should rightly know. More than once, he finds himself questioning whether his life as an ex-FBI agent was real. _This_ feels real, no matter how badly he wishes it wasn’t.

“Are you okay?” Edrisa whispers just as Malcolm catches sight of Martin approaching. 

Something cold drops into the pit of his stomach. “Hm? Of course. Ready for the next round?”

Edrisa whips her head around, following his line of regard. She cracks out her award winning smile just as Martin reaches them, ready to jump back into the fray.

“Is _this_ the charming young lady your mother’s been raving about all evening?” Martin inquires, offering his hand to Edrisa. When she takes it, he ducks his head gently to mimic kissing her knuckles.

“Father, this is Dr. Edrisa Tanaka,” Malcolm says as his pounding heart slowly creeps up into his throat. He feels like he’s a hairsbreadth away from tripping some kind of explosive. “She’s an old friend from med school.”

“I do recall seeing you somewhere before,” Martin replies, now addressing Edrisa. “My wife tells me you’re into research now, somewhere in the field of genetics?”

Edrisa adjusts her glasses, ready to slide into her spiel about her false background and the non-existent case of a patient with a rather peculiar heart defect, one she doesn’t think can be remedied. So far, nobody has been able to give her much in the way of advice, but Malcolm knows Martin won’t be able to help himself before he’ll begin speculating on which of his innovative surgical techniques could be applied to the situation. Then Edrisa will see what Malcolm sees, the mind of a man capable of carving the heart for both the greater good and his own sick pleasure.

Suddenly, the world around Malcolm brightens. Its edges become sharper, its colours bolder, its voices louder and clearer. He is now hyper aware of the many bodies all around him, their proximity and their motion, moving with a fluid grace around this almost static tableau. He feels like a rock in a stream with the water rushing all around him. Nothing in his life has ever felt as real as this moment.

As Edrisa opens her mouth to speak, however, Malcolm’s phone suddenly decides to go off.

He’s pulled back into himself somewhat, feeling a little lightheaded as he blinks stupidly at his two companions, who both raise a curious eyebrow at him in return. Almost in disbelief, Malcolm slips his cellphone out of his pocket and stares down at the screen—god, who would choose _now_ of all times to call him?

Detective Dani Powell, apparently. That’s who.

Any irritation Malcolm might’ve felt at the interruption melts away into an uneasy sort of anticipation when he sees her number. Somehow, he doubts she’s calling to see if he’s still feeling alright.

“Is this something important?” Martin asks, eyeing the still-ringing phone in Malcolm’s hand.

“Uh…I—” Malcolm glances between his father and Edrisa apologetically. “I _really_ need to take this. I promise to be quick.”

“Okay, but—”

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says before ducking into the crowd, hoping Edrisa takes this opportunity to interrogate Martin, that she just doesn’t assume he gets a free pass because he’s Malcolm’s father.

As soon as he hits the stairs leading down to the exit, Malcolm answers his phone. “Hello?”

It’s hard to make out anything at first over the din of the party going on upstairs, but he can hear Dani on the other end of the line. There’s an odd sort of quality to the call, however. She’s saying something to him, but she sounds very far away.

“Hello?” he says again, this time a little louder. He presses a finger against his other ear to block out the background noise.

 _“Sorry,”_ she finally replies, more clearly now. _“I’m driving. I just had to switch you to speakerphone. This is Dr. Malcolm Whitly, right?”_

“The one and only,” he quips. He feels so nervous right now, it’s a good thing he hadn’t eaten anything immediately before coming here tonight. His stomach is a mess of knots. “How can I help you, Detective?”

_“Have you got a second to talk?”_

He glances back up the stairs, wondering how long Edrisa can keep his father occupied before Martin wanders off to socialize with someone he’s more familiar with. “…I can spare you about a minute.”

_“No problem. I just wanted to clarify something with you quickly: twenty years ago, on the night that you called the police, do you remember if an officer actually showed up?”_

Closing his eyes, Malcolm tries to think back on the night in question. So much of his memory is still in limbo. Concentrating as hard as he is now, though, he thinks he can see the hazy figure of a man standing in the main corridor, a man who _should_ be Gil Arroyo, waiting for Martin Whitly to return with a cup of tea. Beyond that, nothing. He _knows_ that in his old reality he then asked Gil to take out his gun—but just this morning, Gil told him that he was practically a world away at the time. There isn’t anything concrete that Malcolm can say about what followed after.

“Yes,” he says, because he feels it in his bones that _that_ , at the very least, is true.

Someone showed up that night.

_“Do you remember anything about him? What he looked like? What he said?”_

Unfortunately, Malcolm can’t stretch it that far. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. “All I know is that a man came into the house and spoke with my father.”

There’s a pause from Dani, faintly punctuated by the sound of her turn signal ticking in the background. Then she asks the million dollar question: _“Do you remember if he left?”_

‘ _If_ ’ he left.

If…

Malcolm’s right hand trembles. He quickly switches his phone to the other before he says, “No. I don’t recall seeing him leave. Do you think something happened to him?”

There’s another pause from Dani, this one longer than the last. He can almost hear the gears turning inside her head as she fights the urge to share the finer details of this potential case with him, a ‘civilian’. Thankfully, the Dani in this world trusts her gut about as well as she does in the other one because she eventually sighs and says, _“One of our guys took the call to check out your place that night, but that was the last anyone heard from him. We found his cruiser a week later parked not too far from his home. Nobody thought to follow up with your father beyond swinging by the next day to ask if he’d seen anyone. Your father’s answer, of course, was that nobody dropped by.”_

‘ _He’s dead,’_ Malcolm thinks, somewhat stunned.

Martin killed him. 

_“I know what this sounds like—”_ Dani begins to say, quick to do a little damage control, perhaps because she’s worried that Malcolm isn’t ready to hear anything quite so damning against his father.

However, she’s done quite the opposite. He suddenly feels a little less crazy, like his grasp on reality hasn’t been as tenuous as he feared. “Where are you now?” he asks, thinking about Martin’s medical journals in his childhood basement. Maybe together they can find the evidence Malcolm knows is down there. “Is there any chance you could swing by the house?”

 _“Funny you should ask that,”_ she replies. _“I just pulled up. Is it too much to hope that your mother is home? She isn’t answering my calls. Do you remember if she was around that night?”_

“She’s occupied at the moment.” And he doesn’t know if his mother would remember anything like that anyway. In the world that he remembers, she was in her study that night, putting together the plans for some kind of elaborate dinner party when Gil knocked on their door. “But the maid might still be home. I’ll give her a call to let you in.”

He knows Dani can’t search the place without a warrant or his parents’ permission, but he can still invite her inside as a guest. Something might stick out at her that his muddled brain has missed. From there, he just has to find a way to convince his mother that something is off about Martin, enough so that she’ll legitimately allow Dani to dig deeper—but he’ll worry about the further intricacies of his plan later. For the sake of his sanity, the only thing that he needs to worry about now is getting Dani into the basement.

_“Sure, but I don’t know if I can—”_

“Please,” he says quietly. He’s not above begging at this point. He so desperately needs her help. “Look—it’s hard to explain right now, but I _promise_ everything will make sense once I get there. Do you have the time tonight to indulge me?

 _“I mean…”_ Dani trails off momentarily. Then she sighs and says, _“I’ve got an hour. If you can get here soon, we can chat about this for a while, see if we can’t jog your memory.”_

“ _T_ _hank you_ ,” he breathes, relieved. And by _god_ does he ever mean it. “Like I said, I’ll give the maid a call.”

_“Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”_

As soon as she hangs up, Malcolm desperately scrolls through his contacts list for Valentia’s number. Relieved, he finds it.

And fortunately, she answers on the second ring. “ _Hello_?”

“Good evening, Valentia. This is Malcolm. Is there any chance you’re still at the house?”

_“As a matter of fact, I’m just finishing up a few things in the kitchen before I head out tonight. Is there something I can do for you?”_

“Yes. This might sound strange, but there should be a woman parked outside. It’s Detective Dani Powell. Can you let her in before you leave? I’ll be heading over soon to speak with her.”

 _“Oh?”_ Valentia replies, clearly confused. _“If you say so, certainly. Is there something she needs from here?”_

“Not really. She’s just dropping by to get my input on a cold case.”

_“Alright then. I’ll pop my head outside and wave her in. Good night, sir.”_

“Thank you, Valentia.”

He thumbs the _‘end call’_ button on his phone and almost drops it in his haste to slip it into his jacket pocket. His right hand is still shaking. He takes a moment to stop and breathe before he turns around to head up the stairs—

—and bumps into his sister.

Her sudden appearance gives him quite the start. 

“Whoa there,” she chuckles, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean to scare you. How are you feeling?”

“Better than yesterday,” Malcolm lies. He’s a mess of emotions right now, eager to see this mystery through to the end, yet terrified of what he knows he’ll find. He lifts his hand to run it through his hair, but aborts the motion immediately when he realizes it’ll give his tremor away. 

Unfortunately, he’s too late. Ainsley glances at his hand, brow furrowed with concern, “What happened?” she asks. “Did you get a bad call? They don’t need you at the hospital, do they?”

“No, not at all,” he tries to assure her. “I’m still just a bit tired. Coming here tonight might’ve been a bit too ambitious of me.”

Thankfully, Ainsley has no trouble accepting his answer as the truth. She grins and jerks her head toward the stairs. “I just saw your date. I’m glad you came, even if it was just long enough to introduce your lucky lady to mom— _who_ , by the way, is so over the moon with the idea that you’re socializing again that she doesn’t even care if this is just some platonic thing you’ve got going on with your old study buddy.” 

“Edrisa’s been a good sport about coming tonight with next to no notice.” Honestly, he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to repay her for taking a blind leap of faith for him. 

“Speaking of lady friends…” Ainsley’s eyes dart to Malcolm’s throat. She suddenly leans much closer, squinting. “Is she the one who gave you the foundation? Because, I’ve got to say, I don’t think anyone would’ve noticed the bruises if they didn’t know what to look for. Her make-up game is far superior to mine.”

“Her parents are morticians,” he replies without thinking. When Ainsley shoots him a vaguely creeped out but still amused look, he quietly follows up with, “And she has a cousin in the film industry.”

Ainsley nods slowly. “Oh. Cool.”

Malcolm swallows and waves his hand toward the stairs before starting up them. “I should get back to her.”

“Ah, yes, right.” Ainsley trails quickly after him, hiking up the front of her long, silvery gown as she goes. “I’m probably going to latch onto mom for the rest of the evening. Don’t push yourself. And give me a call if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you.”

She winks at him once they reach the top, then vanishes into the crowd. Malcolm just stands there for a moment, watching her go, wondering how she’ll be affected by everything once Martin’s house of cards comes tumbling down. She isn’t a little girl anymore; the public is going to turn on her the same way everyone did on their mother once the news gets out that they’ve been living in blissful ignorance with a serial killer.

The knot in Malcolm’s stomach tightens as he scans the room for Edrisa. Thankfully, she hasn’t moved from where he left her. 

But Martin has.

Malcolm swears under his breath and pushes through the throng of bodies to rejoin Edrisa. She is staring out across the room at the large windows along the far wall, a new champagne flute in hand. She jumps a little when he touches her shoulder, then gives a small, nervous laugh as she adjusts her eye-glasses. “Sorry, you had me worried—who called?”

“Detective Dani Powell.”

“Has she got a lead on your mugger?”

“She was following up on an old case, actually—do you happen to know where my father went?”

“Thattaway…” she waves her free hand vaguely towards the bar.

Malcolm squints into the crowd, hoping to catch sight of him. Then he returns his attention to Edrisa. She takes a long sip of her champagne, watching him in return over the rim of her glass, silent. There’s something about her sudden stillness that he finds unsettling.

Nervous, his throat tightens. Consequently, his question comes out a little softer than he intends. Weaker. “...Have you found the Surgeon?”

She suddenly tips her glass all the way back to polish off the last of her champagne, then sets the flute down on the table beside her. She stares at her hand where it’s still wrapped around the neck of the flute, as if trying to brace herself. “He’s…an intelligent man, your father.”

“What did he say?” 

Edrisa slowly retracts her hand and rests it against her stomach. Voice lowered, she says, “I made up two _very_ peculiar medical scenarios. The way he solved them was eerily similar to something I would expect the Surgeon to know.” Briefly, she glances up at him. Her eyes are a little glossy, like she’s about to cry. “I almost can’t believe it…Your _father_ , Malcolm? Is this for real?”

“I wish it wasn’t,” he breathes. 

“Are you sure this isn’t a joke?” she asks desperately. “Because he even postulated the kind of tool used in one of the Surgeon’s most recent murders, and that is _far_ too close to comfort for my liking.”

He touches her arm lightly, pushing through the pain and nausea to keep them on track. “That was Dani who rang me a couple of minutes ago. About 20 years ago, I called the cops on my father because I suspected him of being a killer, and he probably is since the responding officer disappeared off the face of the planet that same night.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers, glancing around at the people milling about them, blissful in their ignorance of the killer in their midst. “Malcolm,” she looks at him again, “are you going to be okay? I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

He’s not okay, and he won’t be for a long time coming, but the only thing he can do right now is soldier on. “Dani’s at my parents’ place right now,” he says. “I’m going to meet her there. I know my father has journals detailing his handiwork somewhere in the basement—”

“You _can’t_ touch anything of his without a warrant,” she quickly interjects. “I need to call Det. Arroyo and tell him what I’ve learned tonight. Between what your father told me and whatever information Dani has on this disappearance, he might be able to squeeze something out of a judge. But that’s still a big if. Just hold off on tearing apart the place before I get through to him, okay?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” Hands shaking, she tears open her evening purse and pulls out her cellphone, almost dropping it in her haste to unlock the screen. “This might take a while because Gil is at another function tonight. He’s usually pretty good about answering his phone at odd hours, though, so we’ll see…”

“Edrisa,” he touches her arm again gently. “Take a moment to collect yourself if you need it. I’ll catch a cab to my parent’s place. Just call Gil and then head home. You’ve already gone above and beyond for me tonight.”

Malcolm knows it’s a bit hypocritical of him to tell anyone to calm down, but Edrisa looks appreciative of his words. She offers him a faint smile and nods. “There are private call booths down the hall, if I’m not mistaken. Let me know how this all goes down later tonight, alright?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiles again, adjusts her glasses, and then reaches up to squeeze his arm in return. “Be strong, Malcolm.”

 _‘I’ll try,’_ is what he wants to say, but the knot in his throat chokes the words back down.

Understanding, Edrisa turns into the crowd, carefully pushing her way through to the other side of the room.

“She’s cute.”

Malcolm just about jumps out of his skin at the sound of his father’s voice. He whips his head around to face the other man, pulse pounding in his throat. He swallows hard. “She…Edrisa’s…”

Martin glances past him briefly, his gaze trailing after her, confused. “Did something happen between the two of you? You look upset.”

Malcolm shakes his head. He feels like he’s a child again, visiting his father in the asylum for the first time. He is as terrified now as he was back then, facing the man who had cared for him, played with him, and taught him everything he knew, struggling to understand how such a seemingly soft and simple person could hurt anyone. Even now, afforded the security of a crowded room, Malcolm’s afraid, because deep down inside he knows that being surrounded by a hundred healthy minds can’t really protect him or the people he loves from the diseased one standing before him.

“And how about your head?’ Tilting his own head ever so slightly to one side, Martin eyes his throat. “I mean, you look far better than you did yesterday, I’ll give you that, but your sister has already told me about the foundation.”

“I’m just tired,” he replies. “I think I’ve strained myself too much today. I’m going to head out.”

“Oh, then I’ll give you a ride. In fact, maybe you should stay the night again. Your mother and I always worry about you when you’re on your own.”

“ _No_. I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense!” Martin chuckles, waving his hand dismissively. “Goodness—your mother wishes you and your sister still lived at home. It’s a little lonely sometimes with just the two of us. It’s always a pleasure to have you over.”

Malcolm clenches his hands at his sides, thinking about the disaster waiting to unfold should Martin return home to find a detective loitering in his sitting room. It would likely ruin Malcolm’s only chance of getting the drop on his father.

He needs to think of something.

And he does.

“She’ll kill you.”

Martin blinks at him, utterly baffled. Then he shifts his weight a little between his feet, cocks his head to one side again, and says, “Who?”

“Mother,” Malcolm elaborates. “I already have her permission to duck out of the party early tonight, but you swore to her that you were going to stick it through to the end.”

This earns him another chuckle from Martin, who shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and begins scanning the room for his wife, as if worried that she’ll pop out of nowhere when he least expects it. “Well, you know…I think she’d make an exception for—”

“Me,” Malcolm supplies, “and me alone, her fully grown son, who is more than capable of catching a cab.” He reaches over to give his father a gentle pat on the arm. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Impossible,” Martin replies, voice softening with concern. “Someday, when you’re a father, you’ll know what it feels like to worry almost constantly about your children. You let them out of your sight for a second, and then ‘ _wham!’_ , one of them takes a baseball bat to the head. Unbelievable...”

“It won’t happen again,” Malcolm says, even though he can’t really make any such promise.

Martin’s snort of disbelief is expected. Even so, the other man seems to relent. “At least you’re not trying to drive yourself home, I suppose...Do you have enough cash on hand for a cab? If you wait five minutes, I can grab my wallet and—”

“Dad,” Malcolm says, quietly but firmly, “I’m fine.”

How strange it is to have Martin fussing over him like this, worried over something as trivial as a cab ride. What wouldn’t Malcolm have given for _this_ to be his true reality, a father who was more concerned with how his child might safely get from point A to point B than fulfilling his more primitive desires? 

How cruel was it that Malcolm couldn’t really have this in _either_ world.

“I’m fine,” Malcolm says again, a little softer this time. He angles his body toward the exit, a subtle hint that he considers this conversation as good as over. “I hope you can enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“Alright then,” Martin finally relents, shuffling nervously again on his feet. “I will.” Then he turns into the crowd, giving a little wave to one of his passing colleagues as he makes his way toward whom Malcolm presumes is his mother.

Malcolm’s tremor returns as he watches his father go. 

He stuffs his hand in his pocket and finally makes his way to the front entrance.

Hailing a cab takes him much longer than he anticipates. He feels as though he stands on the curb for a small eternity, sticking his hand out every time he spots a cruising taxi hungry for work. However, they all decide to pass him over for any woman in an evening gown standing nearby, which, fair enough, Malcolm can hardly compete with them, but this forces him to walk a block away before someone finally pulls over just for him.

He gives the driver his parents’ address and sits back in his seat, trying to fight off a sudden wave of fatigue. The driver is blasting _‘Shake Me, Wake Me When It’s Over’_ by the Four Tops on the radio, but that doesn’t help. He knows he has his anxiety to thank for his current state; he’s severely sleep deprived, and the excitement of this evening is finally taking its toll on him. He has a very limited energy reserve to draw from to get him through whatever waits ahead.

It’s a miracle that he doesn’t pass out before the cab _finally_ crawls up to the front of his parents’ house, moving at a snail’s pace, slowly enough that Malcolm just about screams in frustration. Instead, he thrusts a handful of cash at the driver, more than Malcolm knows he owes for the fare, and then stumbles out onto the sidewalk, pausing just a moment to take in his surroundings and compose himself before the real fun begins. He doesn’t see Dani’s car anywhere nearby, but maybe she drives a different vehicle in this reality? In any case, there’s a light on inside his parents’ house, so hopefully that means Valentia is still around. She can tell him whether Dani actually managed to swing by before he got there.

By the time that Malcolm makes it up the stairs to the front door, his fatigue decides to give him another reprieve. He shakes his head a little for good measure as he fishes around inside his coat pocket for his keys, then invites himself in, calling out first for Valentia and then ‘Detective Powell.’ He is admittedly surprised to hear nothing in return.

He supposes he really shouldn’t be, considering that the only light on in the house is the chandelier in the front foyer. Malcolm’s admittedly disappointed because— _correction_ , there _is_ another light on, one that he only notices as he wanders off toward the darkened sitting room at the back of the house. There’s a faint glow emanating from the bottom crack of the basement door, indicating that someone was recently down there. Or someone _is_ down there, although he’s pretty sure he would’ve beaten his father home. Then again, his taxi driver wasn’t going anywhere fast, so he can’t rule out that possibility entirely…

His hand begins to tremble again. He curls it into a fist at his side and then relaxes it, but it remains resolutely useless, forcing him to reach out with his other hand to open the basement door. Down the narrow flight of stairs, he can see that one of the hallway lights is on but nothing else beyond that. Most likely, someone forgot to turn it off before they returned upstairs, because Malcolm can’t see anyone operating within the oppressive darkness that surrounds that solitary beacon of light.

Malcolm hesitates at the top of the stairs, almost holding his breath as he listens for signs of activity below. He hears nothing for the longest time, then the subtle hitch of the furnace as it kicks into action. So far as he can tell, he’s alone.

Even so, something in the pit of his stomach turns over, performing a nauseating little flip as he begins his descent. He would almost feel ashamed of how afraid he is if it weren’t for the morsel of courage he’s able to scrape up now, just enough to compel him to walk down the stairs and into his father’s office.

He’s not sure what entices him to go in there, knowing that he can’t really touch anything if he wants it to be used as evidence, but he still finds himself drawn to the bookcase that houses Martin’s medical journals. Well, Malcolm’s journals too, because while it’s obvious that Martin has moved a few of his books since the last time Malcolm poked around in here, Malcolm’s are still sitting untouched on the top shelf. His body seems to have a mind of its own as he reaches up for one of the first volumes and cracks it open, turning to one side so that he can see what is written on the pages by the dim, oily light pouring into the office from the hallway.

Much like his father, it looks as though Malcolm has taken to jotting down notes and sketches of his most peculiar cases. He is a _far_ better artist in this world, but that doesn’t surprise him. When he was a child, his father used to say that if a surgeon couldn’t draw in a straight line, then they couldn’t be trusted to cut any better. Madman that Martin might be, he wasn’t wrong about that.

As Malcolm skims the pages, something slots into place in the back of his mind. He suddenly remembers a great deal more about his second life than he did the day before. He can envision himself in an operating room for most of these cases and then subsequently following up with his patients, chatting with grateful children and their parents, feeling as though he was making a significant contribution to the world. He was happy to be a surgeon. He found his work fulfilling, even if the pressure was a bit more than he could handle at times.

For a moment, Malcolm feels genuinely comfortable in his new skin. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t enjoy his work as a profiler, but there is certainly something about being surrounded by the dead that is a bit...demoralizing. His work as a profiler is purely reactionary, finding justice for people who have already been hurt, often beyond repair; their tragedies have already come and passed. As a physician, he has a chance to halt more than just a few tragedies in their tracks. No one has to die on his operating table, not if he can help it.

However, as with his previous life, any elation he feels is short-lived. He turns to a page halfway through this journal, upon which he finds neither medical notes nor drawings. Instead, it’s been decorated with a mess of pen strokes carving out the same few words over and over again in one long stream of consciousness: _‘—hold on hold on please hold on just hold on hold please hold please please please hold on just hold on please just_ **_please_ ** _—’_

Malcolm slowly exhales. Then he stops breathing entirely for a moment. He suddenly remembers many other things, like the fact that just about every day of his life has been poisoned by a subtle though persistent sense of fear and anxiety; this is why he had his usual medications back at his flat. He also remembers that he is known to have occasional blackouts, much like he did as a child when Martin used to chloroform him, and had suffered more than a few mental breakdowns in the past. His friends and family chalked it up to the pressure of living in the shadow of one of the greatest surgeons of their time, but he was young yet, they assured him, and well on his way to becoming just as brilliant as his father with a knife.

Lightheaded, Malcolm returns the journal to its place and pulls another one off the shelf. This time, he leaves through the pages a little quicker. More notes, more diagrams _—_ and then another page of incoherent ramblings, a mantra of ‘ _—please just please hold please hold on hold on hold on on on please hold on please please hold on just please—’_

He returns it to the shelf and pulls out another.

‘ _—hold on hold on please hold on please just hold on please—’_

This one slips from his fingers and lands between his feet, face down, creasing the pages.

Numbly, he pulls another one off the shelf.

‘ _—please just hold on please please please please please—’_

_—there is a woman on a table, eyes wide with fear, paralyzed by whatever concoction is in her IV drip—_

Another journal joins the pile.

‘ _—please hold on please hold on please just hold—’_

_—He feels woozy. He knows he’s been drugged, too. Usually, he just sits in the corner and is helpless to do anything by watch. Then, when it’s all over, his father will put him under completely so that he wakes up none the wiser. But this time—_

And another. 

‘ _—on please hold on hold please hold on—’_

_—there are two strong arms wrapped around him and two equally strong hands curled around his own, helping him hold the scalpel in place. His father is at his back, boxing him in against the gurney, pushing his hands down toward the white expanse of her stomach. And Malcolm—_

And another.

‘ _—hold on please please—’_

_—is crying because together—_

And another.

‘ _Please, just hold on—’_

_—they are killing her._

_‘—Malcolm.’_

The room spins. 

Malcolm drops this journal onto the growing pile at his feet and braces a hand against the shelf to steady himself. He stares down at the journals for a painfully long time, feeling as though he should pick them up. He would, if didn’t think he’d accidentally tumble over in the process. Books don’t belong on the floor. Then again, _his_ books don’t belong in his father’s office, but he imagines Martin keeps them here to prevent this very thing from happening.

A peculiar kind of darkness suddenly creeps across his vision. He forces himself to inhale slowly between his lips, wondering if he unintentionally held his breath a little too long, but that doesn’t remedy the situation. It must be an external effect then.

Sure enough, something is blocking the light from the hallway.

Malcolm looks toward the threshold of his father’s office and sees the unmistakable silhouette of Martin Whitly standing there. 

The other man reaches over slowly to turn on his office lights. Now that Malcolm can see him clearly, he watches as his father’s attention shifts from the journals at Malcolm’s feet to his son’s face. His own face is a perfect mask of composure as he sighs and says, “Having another episode, are we?”

“I…” Malcolm begins to say, but it comes out as more of a whimper. His throat feels unbearably tight. His face is wet. Is he crying? “I…”

“You should sit down,” his father suggests, glancing aside at the winged-back chairs in the corner. “I have something I can give you.”

For a split second, Malcolm wonders if he’s just crazy—because he _is_ crazy, when you think about it, living the delusion of a man with two lives, one now bleeding slowly into the other. Therefore, he initially considers following his father’s instructions. He’ll sit down and breathe deeply, and then everything will be alright again _—_ but then he’s assaulted by another memory, this one a little more recent, of him grappling with Martin, his father’s hands locked around his throat to subdue him. He chokes Malcolm to the brink of unconsciousness before tucking a needle into the crook of his arm. The other man moves with practiced ease, sedating Malcolm the way he always has for about as long as Malcolm can remember, first with chloroform and then with something a little more potent, the kind of poison that’s been making a mess of his memories all these years.

Malcolm glances over at the wingback chairs but doesn’t move beyond that.

His hesitation to comply does not go unnoticed. Both he and Martin know that the gig is up. Even so, Malcolm tries to make a break for it, his animal brain propelling him forward before he can tell the damn thing that his efforts will likely be for naught.

Sure enough, Martin Whitly, who has _ample_ experience wrangling people smaller and more vulnerable than himself into submission, catches Malcolm by the throat with frightening ease as Malcolm tries to slip past him. After a dizzying second, Malcolm finds himself flat on his back on Martin’s persian rug, gasping for air after having it so rudely knocked out of him. 

“Oh, Malcolm…” Martin sighs. He then curls his hand in the fabric of Malcolm’s dress shirt and hauls him halfway up onto his feet. The room continues to spin as Malcolm fights to draw in his next breath, though it settles down somewhat as he’s finally deposited in one of the chairs in the corner. “I knew it was only going to be a matter of time before you built up a resistance again.”

Malcolm isn’t entirely sure what he’s talking about, but if he had to guess, then he would hazard that Martin is talking about the drugs, the ones that usually keep him docile and amnesic. Such as the concoction that he uses during their many camping trips, which started when he was so very, very young...

Malcolm’s stomach flips again. It’s his worst nightmare come to life, the fact that his father has been grooming him all these years, trying to create the perfect partner in crime. Hence the medications for anxiety and depression that he found at his flat. Hence this sudden delusion that he’s a profiler for the police. As much of a mess that Martin has been trying to make of his brain, there’s still a part of Malcolm that’s trying to fight back.

Despite his father’s influence, Malcolm realizes that he must still be good at his core.

Which is why Malcolm looks up at Martin through the haze of his tears and says, “I can’t do this.”

The corner of Martin’s lips quirk into a derisive smile. “Oh, but we already know that you _can._ ”

“I can’t,” Malcolm chokes out again. “I _won’t_.” 

His defiance earns him a soft sigh. “I suppose I should’ve upped your dose last summer when I realized how lucid you were becoming,” Martin replies as he settles into the chair adjacent to Malcolm, crossing one leg casually over the other, as if they were merely going to philosophize, “but I’ve grown so tired of your passive participation. And you performed _so well_ , Malcolm. It was certainly an upgrade from having you slouched in the corner while I did all the heavy lifting. You were truly awake for once. We had _fun_.”

“No,” Malcolm breathes. He remembers it differently. His father pushed him up against the gurney, guided his hands, made him gut an innocent woman like an animal—Malcolm didn’t want to do it. He _never_ would have wanted to do it.

“Yes, we did,” Martin assures him. “You were smiling by the end of it. Murder _fascinates you_ , Malcolm. It always has.”

Overwhelmed, Malcolm leans forward and buries his face in his hands. He’s shaking now, hard enough that he can feel his teeth chattering together. Is there a possibility that he’s got this all wrong? There’s a part of him that knows what Martin is saying is true. Part of him has always been fascinated with the human body, both in action and repose. It gave a little meat to his delusion of being a consultant for the police, a fantasy that was further fed by the fact that he happened to genuinely know some people at the precinct, both a former patient and old med school companion. His brain has just been playing tricks on him, it seems, changing the narrative of his life in an attempt to protect his fragile mind from the truth.

“No…” Malcolm breathes again, though without much conviction. He doesn’t know what to believe anymore. Is he really a killer?

Dimly, he realizes that he can hear the sound of someone’s heels clicking loudly against the basement stairs. He lifts his head just as Ainsley appears outside their father’s office, having changed from her evening gown into a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, looking exhausted but concerned. 

“Is everything alright?” she asks as she steps into the room. She glances briefly at the pile of journals on the ground before shooting Malcolm a quizzical look.

“ _Ainsley_ ,” Malcolm chokes out before Martin can intervene. “Call the police.”

Ainsley’s eyes widen in surprise. She stops dead in her tracks.

Eerily, Martin says nothing.

Then, ever so slowly, Ainsley continues forward, eyeing Malcolm as if he were some skittish creature. “A detective already came by here tonight,” she replies, finally coming to a halt before her brother. Then she tosses their father a set of car keys and says to him, “I parked her SUV a few blocks over. I’ll drive it to the other side of town later, but right now I need to know if you can fit another body in your trunk. Katya’s small, isn’t she?”

There’s a soft sound of delight from Martin, like this is all somehow very funny to him.

Malcolm, on the other hand, feels the cold tendrils of fear and grief digging into the base of his spine. “Dani?” he breathes in disbelief. Dani was strong _—is_ strong. There’s no way someone like Ainsley could overpower her. Dani couldn’t be dead. She was...she was…

Suddenly, Malcolm feels a prickle of heat on the back of his neck, the first lick of rage finally bubbling up from inside him. He rises to his feet, hands curled into fists at his sides. He doesn’t recall having ever been this angry before. “Ainsley, if you _killed_ her _—_ ”

All at once, Ainsley’s posture stiffens. She stares Malcolm dead in the eye.

Then before Malcolm can say anything else, she decks him hard across the face.

Malcolm falls back into his chair, head spinning once more, albeit for a different reason. A miasma of colour flashes before his eyes. Dimly, he realizes Martin has shot up from his seat and is now shouting at his sister.

Reality shifts again.

He suddenly remembers walking along Fifth Avenue two nights ago, mind muddled, plagued by the fragmented memories of a decrepit cabin somewhere out in the woods. Over the years, he has had so many nightmares about that cabin and the grisly sort of work that is conducted there, but he could never understand where these terrible thoughts were coming from. However, if there was any substance to them, all he needed to do was get his hands on a piece of the puzzle, something tangible, something that was connected to these theoretical crimes bouncing around inside his head, and _then_ maybe he wouldn’t feel like he was losing his mind anymore. Maybe then he would have an answer for his periodic blackouts, the ones he pretended he no longer suffered from so as not to worry his mother. After all, he didn’t want any more lengthy stays in a hospital bed, which was how he wasted away the better part of his teenage years.

But despite his delusions, Malcolm Whitly was neither a genuine FBI profiler nor a consultant for the police. He did not have special resources to pull from for his pseudo-investigation, and he did not know how to even _begin_ investigating a crime that he couldn’t be sure was ever committed. In fact, it wasn’t until last week, when his father suggested that Ainsley should tag along for their annual camping trip, that Malcolm finally had something of a revelation: Martin always made a trip to Orvis for more ‘supplies’ a few days before they headed out, although Malcolm didn’t think it was really all too often that a person needed to buy new camping equipment. So, he called up their new maid Valentia and made a peculiar request, asking her to let him know whenever Martin decided to do his last little bit of shopping. And two nights ago she did just that.

Honestly, Malcolm wasn’t sure what he expected to learn at Orvis. In his nightmares, there were ropes and tarps and spotlights and bags and so many _bizarre_ little things that he never would’ve guessed a serial killer would need to clean up and dispose of a body. To see Martin purchasing any of those things would be as good as any starting point to suggest that these hallucinations were in fact a reality. And as soon as he walked into Orvis, sure enough, he spotted his father at a nearby cashier, tarp, rope, and a few other things that looked innocuous to the naked eye piled up in front of him at the till. Just the sight of the yellow rope alone was enough to send Malcolm’s mind reeling, though he finally felt a little less crazy in that moment _._ However, that revelation quickly melted back into confusion because, much to his surprise, Martin wasn’t alone.

Ainsley was there, standing in line behind her father, purchasing a considerable amount of rope herself. 

And a mean looking hatchet.

Malcolm hid in a nearby aisle, pretending to be enthralled with a rack of fishing magazines until they left. Then he picked up a copy of the latest edition of _Outdoor Life_ and made his way over to the cashier, an older woman who gave him a cursory look-over before asking him if he was feeling alright.

 _“Yes,_ ” he said. Then, feeling somewhat bereft, quietly added, _“No, actually,_ ” before telling her that her last customers had been his father and his sister and that he wasn’t sure if he knew them half as well as he thought he did anymore.

The woman seemed a little confused, because Martin, she said, was one of their oldest customers, such a wonderful man, as was his daughter, who apparently frequented Orvis on her own about as often as Martin did. When Malcolm asked her why that was, the woman remarked that Ainsley was apparently an avid hunter, just like her father. 

But to Malcolm’s knowledge, Ainsley had never hunted a day in her life.

Malcolm felt as though he was walking through a fog as he paid for his magazine and then headed out onto the street, unable to think of where he needed to go next. Coming to Orvis had provided him with more questions than answers, none of which he was particularly interested in pursuing. He just couldn’t understand what this all meant. Sure, Martin had signed Ainsley up for archery lessons when she was a little girl, and even to this day the two of them would often go out to a range together in the evening every odd weekend, but shooting a painted bullseye was a world away from shooting an animal. Even more so if that animal was human.

Unable to process what he just learned, Malcolm wandered outside, then chose a spot against the establishment's brick wall and leaned against it as he tried to think. He had no idea how long he slouched there, mind awhirl as the soft orange and pink hues of the sky darkened into a rich velvet. Time passed. The world moved on without him.

What was he supposed to do?

He never reached a satisfactory conclusion to that question, being that he was genuinely mugged sometime during his stupor. He just remembers shouting at someone and shoving them away harder than he probably should have before something hard and unforgiving connected with the side of his head. It drove him down into the pavement and momentarily set the clock back, delivering him to a blessed realm of ignorance.

As Malcolm comes back to himself now, the muffled voices of his father and sister finally break through the barrier. “—was supposed to be the summer that we would finally be able to do this _together_ ,” his father says, as if a spoiled family vacation is really the extent of his worries at the moment.

“I don’t know why I ever agreed to that,” Ainsley snorts in return. “He is as resistant to your grooming now as he was when he was a child. This is already the second time this month that he’s had another ‘episode.’ How many years have you had to drug him, anyway? Think about that for a moment and then compare that to me.”

“But it was different last summer,” Martin argues. “He's so _close_ , my dear. I know this time will be the real breakthrough.”

Ainsley doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that because she’s clued into the fact that Malcolm has returned to his senses. She glances down at the knuckles of her right hand, eyeing the abrasions there before something softens inside her, her brow furrowed with regret. Then she looks over at where Malcolm is struggling to sit upright in his chair and says, “I’m sorry...How’s your head?”

He’s got a splitting headache, but that hardly matters, thanks for asking. He has bigger problems to worry about.

“Please,” he says, “Where’s Dani? Did you kill her?”

“Not quite yet,” Ainsley replies, looking mildly upset that he’s circling back to this. “But I don't know how you can think this will end well for her. Do you _really_ think I can just let a _detective_ waltz out of her after all this?”

It does sound kind of stupid when she puts it like that, but how she managed to figure out what Malcolm was up to is beyond him. Ainsley wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. “How did you even know she was coming?” he asks.

The corner of Ainsley’s mouth twitches into a coy little smile. “I listened in on you while you were making those calls tonight. After I warned dad what you were up to, I raced home, sent Valentia off, and offered the detective a little something to ‘drink’ while she waited for you to arrive. I’m lucky nobody ever pegs a woman for a killer at first glance. Makes my work so much easier.”

“You shouldn’t downplay your persuasive ability,” Martin says as he makes his way over to his desk, a touch of pride in his voice. “I’ve seen the biggest of your kills, my dear. They are nothing to sneeze at.”

As Ainsley bows her head momentarily in abashed gratitude, Malcolm’s eyes dart toward the door. If Dani is alive, she must be somewhere down here. Possibly even in the dreaded box. Assuming Ainsley didn’t overdo it with the drugs and completely depress her respiratory system, Dani might survive the night. In fact, she could regain consciousness soon. If Malcolm could just—

“Now, now, Malcolm,” his father admonishes as he produces a key from his pocket. He unlocks one of the drawers of his desk and pulls out a small wooden case that Malcolm immediately recognizes. Unlatching the lid, Martin pulls out a syringe. “Think of Edrisa, if you will, before you do something stupid.”

“What about Edrisa?” Malcolm asks as his heart plummets into his stomach. He thought she was safe at the gala. Surely, Martin didn’t have enough time to subdue her before coming here?

“You’ve always been so careful to distance yourself from potential friends or lovers,” Martin continues as he pulls a vial containing a milky white fluid from the case, “which I think was a subconscious effort on your part to keep us from finding some sort of leverage. But now that there’s someone you care about, this simplifies matters considerably.”

“I know that she’s a forensic pathologist,” Ainsley elaborates. “Dad doesn’t like to revisit old crime scenes, but I do. I’ve seen her mulling about on a number of our cases.”

As Martin fills the syringe, he says, “It wouldn’t take much effort at all to figure out which precinct she works at and then, from there, where she lives. Needless to say, your full cooperation is the only thing that would ensure her continued well-being.”

Any thoughts Malcolm had of making a break for it die right then and there. He’s already responsible for imperiling Dani; he couldn’t handle the thought of precipitating Edrisa’s demise with his foolishness. He _really_ needs to remember that he doesn’t work for the FBI or the police and realize that he is both outmanned and outmaneuvered here.

Even so, he literally squirms in his seat as Martin rounds his desk with his syringe in hand, giving it a little flick and a squirt to expel any air bubbles. Ainsley, meanwhile, leans over Malcolm, ignoring the way he initially flinches at her touch as she pulls off his suit jacket. She steals his cell phone from his pocket, tosses his jacket on the other chair, and then kneels down to roll up his left sleeve. 

“Thank you, darling,” Martin says as he approaches. Once she steps back out of the way, Martin kneels down in her place, looking up at Malcolm with a peculiar glint in his eye and a small smile on his face. “Tonight, we’re all going to head out to the cabin, Malcolm. Then tomorrow, we’re going to see how well you fare with Katya.”

In his mind’s eye, Malcolm sees a body on a gurney in a tiny room lit only by spotlights. Blue tarp crinkles under his feet as he approaches the woman, his father at his back, coaxing him forward...

Slowly, Malcolm shakes his head. “ _I can’t_ …” he breathes. He doesn’t want to do this.

 _Please_ , don’t make him do this.

“All the same, we’ll give it a go,” his father replies. “I _really_ do think we’re about to make an important breakthrough, my boy, but if it turns out that you still can’t manage it, well...I suppose we already know the best institution for you. I think your mother already suspects that you’re nearing another nervous breakdown anyway.”

And with that, Martin presses the needle into his arm.

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think of all the horrible things that are sure to follow.

The injection is over and done with in no time at all. After Martin retracts the needle, he gives Malcolm a gentle little double pat on the cheek. “There we go,” he says, as if Malcolm was just some child, antsy about a booster shot. “Give it a minute, and then all will be well again.”

Malcolm didn’t know how hard his heart was pounding leading up to this moment until the drugs kick in. Then everything just kind of slows down. The throbbing pain in his head falls to the wayside as his exhaustion finally overtakes him, making it a nearly impossible feat of opening his eyes again. But somehow he manages, eyelids fluttering open marginally as Martin rises to his feet.

Malcolm leans his head back against his chair and listens as Martin mentions a ‘few things’ that he needs to collect from upstairs before they can head out. Malcolm doesn’t catch much more of the conversation beyond that, only then half aware as Martin pulls him off the chair and over his shoulder, hoisting Malcolm up like he weighed next to nothing. He supposes does, compared to his father. Malcolm has always dwarfed him. 

He’s not sure what cocktail of drugs Martin decided to utilize on him this time, but they do a marvelous job of stamping down his anxiety. He feels as though he is floating somewhere in the great inbetween, his mind blessedly silent but for the gentle creak of the basement stairs as Martin carries him up to the main floor, a distant sound that barely penetrates the fog. His eyes flutter closed again, so he allows himself to simply coast, wondering when this all consuming darkness will take him completely.

He is still vaguely aware of the world around him as he’s deposited on what he assumes is a lounge chair in his mother’s sitting room. Martin and Ainsley exchange muffled words, although Malcolm picks up on the fact that Ainsley has decided to sit in the chair adjacent to him while their father ducks out of the room, told to keep watch for signs of arousal or something worse.

Gradually, Malcolm drifts back into the darkness.

Then he hears Valentia.

“—forgot something in the kitchen,” she says, voice growing louder as she approaches. Malcolm manages to crack his eyes open long enough to see the way she pauses briefly at the sight of him. Then she asks, “What happened to him?”

“Another episode,” Ainsley as she rises from her seat, sounding utterly surprised to see their mother’s maid. Her voice takes on a harder edge when she then says, “Who is that in the foyer?”

“Oh, a man,” Valentia offers with a vague flap of her hand, sounding a little flustered as she makes her way toward the kitchen. “He just wanted to speak briefly with the detective and your brother.”

“But the detective has already left,” Ainsley replies, trailing off as Valentia disappears. After a small huff of annoyance, she takes a deep breath, composes herself, and then makes her way toward the front of the house to greet her latest unexpected guest.

Malcolm's eyes creep shut again, but his mind clings to the faint conversation going on at the front door. He can hear Ainsley say that, no, her father is not at home and, no, her brother is not well enough to talk, but she would be more than happy to answer a few questions. First, however, would he like a cup of tea?

Malcolm can't make out the man's response, but his voice is warm and deep, and it stirs something inside Malcolm. First hope, then dread.

Ainsley asks Detective Gil Arroyo to please wait in the foyer as she disappears toward the back of the house, muttering under her breath as she breezes past Malcolm. Cold air brushes against his face in her passing, rousing him enough to open his eyes. He can hear voices again— _the_ voices, the ones that assault him in his sleep, clamouring louder now than ever before. However, they reduce themselves to a soft murmur when his eyes finally focus on the dark figure standing over him, which resolves itself into the image of Gil frowning down at him in concern.

Up until this moment, Malcolm truly had no idea what to make of his life. There were too many familiarities and unfamiliarities confounding what he thought he knew. His father's suggestion of an extended stay at a mental institution didn't sound that bad, all things considered, and he has no doubt that that is where he will end up when this nightmare is over, regardless of its conclusion. However, this man, this _scene_ is too familiar to ignore, an anchor in an otherwise tumultuous sea of thoughts and memories. Seeing him reminds Malcolm that there is one unwavering truth at his core, despite the many differences between his two lives.

Before he succumbs, it is his duty to save Gil Arroyo's life.

“...Take out your gun.”

Gil tilts his head quizzically to one side. Then he crouches down beside the couch, leaning in closer. Softly, he asks, “What did you say?”

Malcolm licks his lips, ignoring the pull of darkness behind his eyes, and quietly repeats himself: “You should take out your gun.”

There, in Gil’s eyes, passes a shadow, a quick analysis of the facts at hands. Of the young man lying weak and sedated on the lounge chair. Of the missing detective. Of the frantic call from his forensic pathologist. He takes it all in, and then, exhaling slowly, he rises to his feet.

Gil reaches for his gun.

Ainsley suddenly flies into Malcolm’s field of vision, a hand at Gil’s collar, yanking him down into the coffee table behind him. He snags a hand around her arm and drags her with him, the table collapsing beneath their combined weight. They grapple for his firearm before it skids across the floor and off to God-knows-where. As they then scramble to restrain one another, Malcolm’s vision takes a brief sideways slip into the yawning darkness, though reality suddenly slots back into focus again as the sitting room falls silent. Malcolm's next return to consciousness reveals that both Gil and Ainsley have risen to their feet, staring one another down, and that Martin has joined their bizarre tableau. He stands near the foot of Malcolm's lounge chair, a knife in hand, nostrils flared with barely contained rage as he eyes up the detective.

For the longest moment, Malcolm doesn't understand why nobody is moving. At first, he assumes that this is just the calm that precedes the real storm, that soon both Martin and Ainsley will fall upon Gil with all the violent delight they can muster. Soon, though, Malcolm realizes that there is another presence in the room, a figure leaning against the wall behind the dining room table, Gil's gun raised, trained on Ainsley.

"Don't move," Dani breathes, looking worn out and a bit unsteady on her feet, but when Martin's forefinger twitches against his knife, she notices. " _Don't_. Move," she growls.

Martin complies.

Malcolm sinks back into the silent darkness.

~***~

They say that when death comes calling that your entire life will flash before your eyes.

But Malcolm’s dying mind only visits one particular moment.

Malcolm sees the foyer of his parents’ home awash with red and blue lights, flickering back and forth across the walls and ceiling, as he stands amongst a sea of police officers taking stock of the situation. After his father is packed away into a cruiser, someone leads him outside by the hand. Away from the prying eyes of bystanders and the cameras of almost every news station in New York City, they crouch down before Malcolm and offer him a small green candy.

Wondering at what he's done and all that his life has amounted to, Malcolm tries to hold back his tears and takes it.

Then Gil Arroyo lays a hand on his shoulder and tells him that everything is going to be alright.

~***~

Malcolm is roused by that touch.

His eyes flutter open for the final time.

It is the same as it was before, the room abuzz with police as they begin the delicate process of tearing his childhood home apart. He is still lying on the lounge chair, fighting to stay awake. Gil has crouched down beside him. 

"Hold on," Gil says.

"Why?" Malcolm asks, throat tight, his eyes burning with unshed tears. Through his drug-induced haze, he slurs, "Do you...do you know what he made me?"

"I know that Dr. Martin Whitly made a son," Gil replies. "And a daughter. Just regular old human beings, Malcolm."

"I'm a monster," Malcolm sobs quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His tears spring free now, hot against his cheeks. "I killed a woman."

"Listen to me," Gil tells him, just a touch stern. He squeezes Malcolm's shoulder. "Just listen."

And Malcolm does. He lies there, waiting, until he hears the chorus of voices in his head, steadily gaining momentum. As much as they scare him, he forces himself to listen to them, _really_ listen, straining to hear what they're saying.

Faintly, he thinks he hears: ' _Please, just hold on, Malcolm._ '

"You haven't killed anyone," Gil continues softly. "And you probably never will. Your compulsion for the preservation of life is far greater."

Malcolm feels stupid for crying. He also feels stupid for wanting to believe that this is true—for _actually_ believing that it’s true. He knows he's a good man, in spite of the monster that sired him. He _wants_ to be good.

He just wants to be good...

Gil squeezes Malcolm's shoulder again and gives him a little smile. Behind him, the paramedics are finally spilling into the house, making a beeline for the sitting room.

"You can rest now," Gil says, the deep rumble of his voice lulling Malcolm back to sleep. "It's time to wake up, kid."

And as Malcolm allows his consciousness to slip into the crescendoing stream of voices at the back of his mind, he finally does.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I will admit, I kind of got bummed out at the end of season one when the show beat me to the Ainsley-is-a-killer twist. Even if it isn't 'original' anymore, I hope you enjoyed the second chapter. 
> 
> Also, just in case anyone was wondering, the famous quote at the beginning of the story was taken from one of the many letters Saint Paul wrote to the Corinthians, in which he remarks (broadly speaking) that we do not see clearly _now_ but will know better at the end of time—that includes what we know about ourselves.


End file.
